


Hunting Season

by squiddlydivine



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Battle Scenes, DSMP, Dad Schlatt, Dream Smp, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt, Fallen Angel Dream, Fallen Angels, Gream - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, King Eret (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Magic, Magic School, Minecraft, Minecraft Manhunt, Political Alliances, Political Drama, Religious Themes, Schlatt is Tubbo's dad, Villain Schlatt, demon sapnap, dream and bad are sort of brothers, dream breaks every law, dream team, dreamnotfound, dsmp fictional characters, eret and george are cousins, fallen angel schlatt, george knows clay and dream as seperate people, half angel tubbo, hurt comfort but the comfort is dream literally eating george's feelings, magician, manhunt is a complex magical sport, mikey wants fanart btw so draw link for him, seriously where are the bbh tags, slowburn, thanks to my catboy husband for beta reads, we do NOT die like george in manhunt, wilbur's drug ring is in the fic now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:28:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddlydivine/pseuds/squiddlydivine
Summary: “Dream,” George breathes, eyes wide behind his goggles, and in a flash, his shield is raised, fear coiling in his gut as a poorly drawn smile glares him down.OR: high fantasy AU where most of the dsmp members studied/are studying at institutions to be practicing magicians, manhunt is a complex state-sponsored sport, and Dream breaks every law imaginable. Also things get gay.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Karl Jacobs & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Floris | Fundy & GeorgeNotFound, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Phil Watson & Technoblade - Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	1. I Am Not Invincible

**Author's Note:**

> This is a DNF work about the SMP characters, not the real people! All of the AU characters are based of the SMP. Link and the bowsman are original characters, but there won't be huge plot relevancy to any OCs.

“What is that?” Dream frowns, tugging firmly on the trailing black fabric of Bad’s robe. Although he was only five years older than Dream, he was significantly taller- and more knowledgeable- than Dream. It wasn’t that Dream wasn’t intelligent, in fact, Bad would say he was one of the smartest people he’d ever met. But Dream was sheltered, to say the least, and clueless, and he needed time to learn about… well, things.

“What, this?” Bad asks, slowing to a halt in the street next to the large crowd dream was eyeing. They were huddled together outside of one of the city’s more popular pubs, peering in small groups at hand-projections cast out of small golden trinkets, mostly lockets and pocket watches. “They’re watching the hunt, Dream!” he chuckles, smiling down at the younger boy. He frowns, not returning Bad’s gaze.  
“The hunt.” he repeats, slowly, as if he was chewing the words into a paste he could digest. 

“It’s a sport. It’s kind of complicated, so I don’t really know if-”  
“Please?” Dream whines, at the same time as Bad trails off, “...I can explain it.” He sighs, looking down for only a moment at Dream’s face before caving in. He wasn’t pouting, and he’d never known Dream to pout, but his nose was scrunched, his eyes dark as if the world was keeping secrets from him that he was constantly grabbing at, only to have them be pulled just out of his reach. Bad didn’t think manhunt was really all that gratifying, definitely not something for Dream to be obsessive over learning about, but… how could he deny to tell him anything? He needed guidance here, a voice that leveled and walked him through the basics. When all you know is torn away- if all _he_ knew had been torn away- how could he ever hope to start over? A fall from heaven must leave one so empty. 

“Come on.”  
  
A moment later, Bad is sitting on a loopy brass stool, a steaming mug of tea resting on the tall, thin table between him and Dream. Behind them, the blue-tinted glass of a cafe window warps the images of people milling about inside. Dream’s leg jiggles up and down where it rests underneath the table, and Bad clears his throat. 

“Manhunt,” he begins, “is a sport. The league- that’s the official tournament that the United SMP sponsors- is a huge deal here.” 

“What kind of sport is it?” Dream asks, eyebrows tilted upwards with his interest. Bad hides a small smile.  
“It’s not really that simple,” he admits. “But I’ll try to explain it as best I can. I actually play a bit myself, so I might be able to do a good job!” he grins. “In manhunt, licensed magicians who have graduated from practice institutions use blackrooms to project into golems,” he explains. “That’s the main basis of the game. The golems are a lot different and more refined than the ones you’re used to from the farm- they look just like people, not like big guards or bots. Some of them aren’t modeled after real species, but they usually look like they could be real creatures.”  
“So… you possess a golem? Is that it?” Dream huffs, face pinched in a sort of impatient disappointment Bad sees him wear a lot. He’s not easily impressed, for someone with nothing. Bad chuckles, shaking his head. 

“No, silly, that’s just the basis. Once you project into your golem, that’s when you play. There are three main objectives to the game, but there’s lots of complex systems behind each of them. In a game of manhunt, you only need to do two of them, but if you play in a tournament or leagues, there’s a third. Manhunt is a game of surviving and fighting, more than anything, but if you want to win a competition, you also need to beat the game. There’s all sorts of boxes you need to tick for that, and you complete them throughout the span of a tournament over many hunts. Your golem and others are set into an arena with an enchantment that creates a vision of another realm for you to use, and in that area, all of you need to find hidden levers which can be pulled to give you cards!” He pauses, waiting a moment for Dream to catch up with him. He can see the other trying to conceptualize the game, and he sits while Dream formulates his questions silently.  
“What are the cards for?” he finally asks, and Bad sips his tea before responding.  
“They’re resources, things you need to fight and beat the game. You can get iron ingot cards, ender pearls, wood, anything! Once you have them, you can cast your cards together to form new ones, or trade them with your hunt team, or sell them back to the competition sponsor for game points.”  
“How do you beat the game?”  
“You have to kill a dragon. Usually it’s not a real dragon, but in the national league the final team is taken to End City to fight in the arena there, and they have to kill one for real.”  
“Woah,” he murmurs, and Bad takes another dragging sip of tea to hide his smile. “Wait, so what else? You find the cards, and you fight, and then you kill the dragon? What about the teams?”  
“Oh, right. Well, in the league, there’s a preliminary match you have to come through to qualify for the tournament, but once you get through that, you have to join a hunting team of three people! Those are your teams for the whole tournament, and whichever team is left at the very end faces off individually against one another. That’s when they have to kill the dragon while escaping the others on their team.”  
“That’s…” Dream trails off. For a moment, he looks distant, the way he does when Bad makes a joke about Hell or asks him a question about home. He fights the urge to reach out, because really, he knows it will only make Dream mad, make him fold in on himself until he can see nothing but the white hot rage burning in his head.  
“That sounds incredible,” he finally breathes. Bad breathes too, pushing air he didn’t know he’d been keeping close in a puff through his teeth.  
“It is.” 

***

_If only they could see him now_ \- that’s all that he can think. The words ring loud and boisterous across the front of his mind, over and over and over again, until they’re worn and tired, but never dim- they burn hot and firey and sweetly painful between his eyes. 

The buzzer blares thrice- ten minutes until the gates rise up. Eyes closed, he can hear the distant ring of hollering voices, masses packed into stands they’ll barely be able to see from. They’d probably paid a fortune to come and watch this, but any loser with a magician’s license could waltz into the arena itself, at least for today. That’s what he had done last year, forged ID burning a hole in his pocket as he lined himself up for sure death. _If only they could see him now._ They would see him- stare at him, cheer his name. But they would never know it.  
  
“Dream!” His eyes peel slowly open, and he turns to look for the source of the voice. Grinning like a fool, leaning his torso precariously over the catwalk railing above him, Karl is waving down at him. He waves back, centering his stance to face his friend, momentarily turning his back away from the wrought iron gateway that separates him from the battleground.  
“Karl,” he calls up, “Looking for Sapnap?”  
“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told him I would come wish him luck.” He lets his arm fall back to the railing, his sleeve dipping back from where it had bunched on his elbow. The hem of the airy fabric catches on his wrist for a moment before rolling down his forearm like water. He adjusts it absent-mindedly, and Dream smiles. Karl is so effortless, it’s no wonder he'd been invited to the Hollow Guard. The other members are ahead of him on the catwalk, Dream notices, their white shirts bright against the dark wood and black metal that makes up the Crate. Dream knows Karl can see at least a few of the boxes from his vantagepoint, and he’s tempted to ask him which side Bad is starting on. It would be a good advantage, knowing where he can find his friend- if one of them gets eliminated today, the others will have to find a new teammate for the league. He doesn’t have the chance, though, because a second later the buzzer blares once more, two long resounding sirens that signal the five minute warning.  
“Tell him I said no dying,” Dream huffs, and Karl grins. As effortless as he is, Karl is horrible at hiding his emotions, and it’s clear he’s going to explode if he doesn’t find Sapnap soon. Dream waves him off, and he waves excitedly before scurrying off to rejoin the Guard. A few moments later, Dream can see him pull to a stop again, presumably above Sapnap’s box. He’s on Dream’s left, probably around thirty boxes down- they should be able to find each other easily once the gates are lifted.  
Dream averts his gaze when he sees Karl lean further over the railing, smirking and undoubtedly saying something wildly inappropriate to Sapnap. He won’t intrude on their moment, even though neither can see him, and he can hear nothing but the bustle of the crowd in the box standing a floor above where he stands. There’s a stagnant energy in the air, and he rocks on his feet as he turns back to the gate. Who’s waiting for him- in the box next door, the one across the arena? Who’s going to lunge, who’s going to swing? _Who’s going to win?_

The buzzer blares once, then pauses, then blares four more times. The crowd hushes significantly, and Dream can hear the theatrical voice of the announcer in his booth, prepping the audience for the first hunt of the season. He knows the drill by heart, having been in the arena with the guy so many times, and although the announcer changes up his script, Dream knows all the points he’ll hit; “ _Welcome, everyone, across the nation- to this year’s preliminary hunt!”_ And that was the thing, wasn’t it, that gave Dream such an edge in this game, that made it _so fucking easy._ Because the manhunt league was the same every single year, no twists, no dramatic reveal. A crowd of scholars fresh out of institute training, all clamoring to the preliminary box for a chance to earn a seat in the hunt season. They all wanted it, those stuffy academic types who’d spent their last four years squirreled away in libraries and classrooms. The magicians who’d turn their nose up at “brutish” activities like armory studies and the beast ring would just as soon kill when the consequences were erased, and that was the whole point of manhunt- a gorey bloodbath of a sport played by puppets. The magician’s dolls, crafted to fight for them, would tear into each other like demons, all while their puppeteers sat in their blackrooms and watched through their eyes. Even his teammates were no better- kneeling in their converted bread cupboard at home, black paint peeling under his boots, Sapnap was waiting to fling his own doll into the ring, and Bad would be doing just the same from his office. Every single player in this hell of a game was, all of them but him- where his feet, his real feet, stood planted firmly in the dusty floor of the box, where his blood pumped through his veins. _That_ was why he would win again, just as surely as he had won last year. No mile-long strings were holding him to a lifeless doll, no black paint obscured his sense of reality. No security blanket wrapped him with the assurance of total safety. Danger pressed bodily at his ears, drowning out the noise of the announcer with the weight and force of a dam bursting. 

The buzzer erupted his bubble, shattering a glass dome so crystal clear that Dream hadn’t even noticed it in his mind’s eye. One, short buzz, and the clicking of gears. From the corner of his eye, Dream could see Karl and the other Guards laughing and sprinting further down the catwalk to their box, and he could hear the shifting of feet in the boxes to his left and right, the dolls there preparing to run as their magicians listened to the buzzer sound. Jebediah’s voice boomed louder in the air, settling Dream’s fate in stone. 

_“Let the hunt begin!”_

He turns his back to the gate, bracing himself for a moment and moving himself right against the back wall of his box. As soon as he hears the creak of the iron rising from the ground, he flings himself forward, diving and rolling on the ground under the slowly rising metal and extending himself back to a sprint as soon as he’s on the other side. No one else is in the arena yet but him, and he knows this time is valuable. Manhunt isn’t just a killing sport, and throughout the league he’ll have to make time not only for fighting, but for beating the game. He sprints into the trees that blanket the arena before anyone else, before the heavy gates are even halfway off the ground. He finds his first lever, pulls it down and grins as 6 cards float before him and then file themselves into the holster at his side. One of them is flint, and he thanks the gods for his fortune. Four are iron, almost as good, but much more common- the last glints in the corner of his eye as it files into his deck, a pearl. Lady luck is on his side tonight. 

_“Citizens of the united SMP, already our returning champion is showing us his skill, flinging himself into the Arena before any other! The guy’s kind of a douchebag, but god dammit, I can’t say he’s not ruthless!”_ Dream laughs as Jebediah’s voice booms around him, the audience following his words with a roar of cheering. He’s halfway up the tree when he spots another lever a few down, and he flings himself precariously from the branch he stands on to the other tree, hand tugging the lever as he flies and the cards spilling out of their slot to follow him to his next foothold. He climbs up once more, not counting his materials anymore and worrying more about quantity. Anything he gets now is just an extra boon, an advantage in the league, and he’ll have countless opportunities to find and win loot during his team matches. When he finally breaks the treeline, scanning the sprawling arena for ruins or a tower, he can hear Jebediah droning again, not catching much other than _“and there they go, they’ve got some catching up to do now!”_ He curses, and he’s gone below the trees again, but not before throwing a fist up for whoever’s watching and banging once on his shoulder. He can hear the audience scream, but the sound is distant now as the game enchantment takes hold of the arena floor. The stands disappear from his vision, his vision rendering a much larger expanse of forest. The first aspect of a manhunt round- survival. The audience will be watching the projections now, more than the arena, because to them, the whole space is blanketed in fog. For the players, the world is at their fingertips, and anywhere they run will be replaced by newly generated terrain for them to work with and gather materials from. When they run into each other, that’s when things start to get messy. 

Dream finds 10 more levers, for a total of 76 cards. It’s more than anybody reasonably needs from the preliminary, but once leagues start, he’ll be able to pool resources with his team and repurpose or trade them. It’s only then that he starts getting bored of being by himself. And really, why shouldn’t he seek out the others now? The amount of cards he’s gathered is undoubtedly overkill, and he’s itching to fight, especially now that he’s got an iron axe strapped to his back- and a shield on his arm. He swings the blade off of his shirt where it hangs, hefting it’s weight once in his hand before setting off in the direction that Sapnap should have come out of his box. He starts running into people quickly enough, now that they’re had time to move into the middle of the ring, but he doesn’t find many issues. The first time he’s caught off guard, a sword swinging quickly towards his neck, he ducks backwards, the blade a hair’s breadth from grazing his nose. Twisting his torso around, Dream huffs in anger, letting himself be pulled by his momentum so that his arms swing wide and fast, axe’s blade slicing the air around him like scissors cutting paper. The axe lands in the skull of his unseen assailant with a dull thud, and the doll goes limp. He grins wickedly as he recognizes Antfrost’s favorite puppet, soft fur roughed from the battle and blue eyes dull from it’s host connection being severed. Dream can hear Jebediah cackling, magical voice-booster leaking through the arena enchantment like molasses. _“What some have called a rivalry already resolved- with our champion taking down fifth-year hunter Antfrost with just one swing!”_ Dream laughs out loud- too loud- surely someone hears him, and he knows they’ll come. He twirls his axe once and then twice around his flattened palm, the handle clicking across each of his knuckles in order then again before he pulls his hand quickly back to catch hold of it in midair where it hangs suspended by the force of his own movement. He doesn’t doubt they’re showing him on the projection now, and he flashes a slightly toothier smile before he jumps straight into the air two feet to avoid a crossbow arrow that had been shot from the foliage. There they were- _come to heed his call._ Like dogs to a whistle, they would stampede forth at his every click and clang until he’d felled a whole new forest floor of empty shells. 

The bowsman tries again twice before giving up, and when they spring forth, Dream wastes no time, flinging one leg out and bending his other knee to duck low under their reaching arms. They don’t spare a moment either, springing off their hands and swinging off a low-hanging branch back into a tree on the other side of Dream. _Agile,_ that’s a challenge. Dream flings his shield up just in time to stop the hurtling projectile of 4 arrows, all fired in the same round. Agile and _precise_ . As the hunter dives down once more, daggers clutched in extended arms, Dream is ready. Instead of dodging, he pulls up his shield, waiting for the moment of impact between wood and dagger before throwing his assailant to the side. With two daggers plunged deep into the shield’s wood and gripped deathly tight in their hands, the bowsman is wrenched painfully from their weapons and knocked aside without a hope of rolling back to the trees. In a flash, Dream stands over them, raising the shield high above his head for a moment before swinging it directly down. The sickening crack of their skull- the second skull he’d cracked in the past few minutes- is enough to tell him it’s safe to move on, and he sprints forward. He doesn’t worry about battling again, but he knows if he doesn’t get his ass in gear, it’ll be almost impossible to find Sapnap. He might be able to afford a few extra confrontations in the preliminary, but he can’t afford Sapnap getting disqualified. With strangers on his team, the whole league will be different, dangerous, and he needs to know that he, Bad, and Sapnap will be the ones walking out into the end arena at the season’s finale. He needs to know that he won’t be slaughtered- just heavily maimed. _It’s all fun and games until the final show,_ he thinks absently, and he loses himself in the worry for a moment too long. It isn’t even his own reflexes that save him, now, and that shakes him from his inner monologue with a start and a thrill of adrenaline. _Dream, you are not invincible._

***

_Fuck, George, focus, Gods almighty- FOCUS!_ Shield up, sword ready, _focus,_ you are not indestructible, and you are NOT in the clear-  
The rusted hook of the fishing pole catches in his shoulder again, and he curses loudly as he’s tugged backwards. The man behind him laughs, high-pitched and just a little scratchy, and as he stumbles, his eyes catch the glint of a silver axe blade winding up to swing. He pushes into the momentum of his fall, twisting his feet around as best he can as he goes to sweep out Link’s ankles. Link won’t go down that easy, unfolding sapphire wings just a beat too late and tumbling upwards rather than down. He scowls.  
“Bug off, Georgie, I said I was going to stay on the ground!” He seethes. “So much for my big reveal,” he adds, sing-song and mocking, and George fumes, pulling himself off the dirt below him and aiming a quick crossbow bolt at the figure flitting lazily above him.  
“You’re so goddamn cocky,” George growls. “You weren’t even on the hunt team at institute!” Link’s eyes narrow, and his fist shoots out fast as lightning, smooth as the breeze, closing in a death’s grip around the now-halted pole of George’s arrow.  
“Wanna say that the fuck again?” he asks, and his voice drips sweet sickly anger.  
“I said you suck major asshole, Link!” George shouts, face plastered with a shit-eating grin despite the fact that oh, Link is _terrifying_ when he’s putting in the effort. In all their years at school, George has never seen the other so much as utter a quick summoning spell- but he guesses there must have been a reason for his high class rank, and he’s seeing it in real-time now. Of _course_ the nature spirit is a good magician, he feels kind of stupid for not thinking that the walking manifestation of an ancient ant colony wouldn’t be able to do some damage in battle. Well, whatever, no leagues for him this year, he guesses. He’ll just get this loss over with quick and easy. He can see Link in the air, lazily knotting the arrow he’d fired into the string of his fishing rod and winding it back to swing. Distantly, he hears the roar of Schlatt, the announcer- “ _Holy shit, that’s cool- and look who’s running up on them, folks, this guy just can’t get enough of the action, Gods above-”_ before Link is whipping the fishing rod across the sky and the arrow, tied perpendicular to it’s string, is hurtling sideways towards him. He preps himself to dodge, and he’s almost fast enough- but he can’t jump out of the way in time to avoid the man in the porcelain white mask who comes barreling through the trees to knock him to the ground. The arrow flies past where his neck had just been, wasting none of its momentum as it keeps hurtling around and lodges itself firmly in the trunk of a tree. Link curses, quickly tossing away the useless fishing rod and casting a second one out of his deck. The man who’d barreled into George quickly rolls off of him, scrambling to the opposite side of the clearing and readying himself to fight. George springs up again- he’s got another chance, and he’s _not_ going to waste this one.  
“Holy Queen of the colony- SHIT!” Link fumbles his rod as he stares open-mouthed down at the man, and after barely a moment, dashes off through the air to another part of the arena. Looking up to where he’d been, the man laughs hysterically, twirling the handle of his axe between his fingers with dread precision.  
“Did- did you hear that?” The guy wheezes, spinning his axe on the tip of his finger even as he laughs, and when his amusement grows too great, and he hunches over clutching his abdomen, he throws the thing, wildly swinging his opposite arm out to snatch it from the air. “What was that? Holy queen of the- you HAD to have heard that, right?”  
“God, shut up,” George huffs. “Should I just stand here all day? Wait for you to finish up? Get a grip.” He rolls his eyes- not that anybody can see behind his tinted goggles. He can see through, though, better than he could have without them, and he’s better off for it. The man stops laughing instantly, and as he turns back up to face George directly, he feels a twinge in the back of his mind. He recognizes that mask. The outfit is new- a cropped green battle cloak and pants made for running- but the mask is the same.  
“What, I can’t have some fun? Do you think I’ll lose?” He hums, and the recognition finally clicks in the base of George’s skull.  
“ _Dream,_ ” George breathes, eyes wide behind his goggles, and in a flash, his shield is raised, fear coiling in his gut as a poorly drawn smile glares him down.   
  
"Yeah, sweetheart, that's me." 


	2. Stolen Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dream,” he growls slowly, and he can feel Dream’s chest shake lightly with laughter where he’s pressed against his back, and can hear the soft wheeze of amusement in his ear.  
> “What’s your name?” Dream asks, and it’s the last thing George expects. There’s little he can do now except answer, sword useless where it hangs limp at his side, hands loose with the knowledge that dropping it would just as quickly end him as raising it up once more.
> 
> Dream and George fight and George's POV is explored more; some more of George's life is revealed. 
> 
> features George, Dream, Philza, Techno, (cameo wilbur), Bad, Sapnap, and Fundy! Also the good old announcer Jebediah Schlatt ofc.

The first swing isn’t a surprise, but George finds himself flailing nonetheless, dodging just in time, almost a second too late. Dream’s axe swings wide and forcefully above his head, and George knows he’s screwed. _Run, I have to run. I can stay in the game if I can just escape._

He knows that’s a pipe dream, he does, but what else is there to do? Fight him? He’d be eliminated for sure, his only golem wrecked far beyond the hope of repair. Then what? Another year of working his ass off at the apothecary to afford a new one, just to have his dreams shattered again next season? He’d promised himself the qualifiers- he’d promised himself that much. He couldn’t go down before the preliminary even ended.   
The axe swings again, downward this time instead of left to right, and this time George throws up his sheild, sharp slivers of birch shooting away from the point of impact like bullets. What George wouldn't give for a light revolver now, leather handle comfortable in his palm- not that it wouldn’t get him disqualified immediately. At least then this dark sickly fear might leave his heart where it grips him tight- then he might have a chance. 

“No,” he whispers to himself, squeezing his eyes shut where he sits in his bedroom closet. The black-painted floor is cool, and he feels the flutter of the poorly-tacked-up fabric he’s used to cover the walls on his back. “I have a chance. I have _this_ chance.” He lets himself see through his doll’s goggles again just in time, and as Dream begins to tug his axe back to him to wind up another swing, George lunges, his sword tight in his grip as he draws both elbows back across his left hip. He counts in the air, drifting like gravity is gone for just one moment- one, two, three, _go-_ and thrusts his arms forcefully in front of him, his blade pushing through Dream’s hastily raised shield like a fork into moist, crumbling cake. Well, this is just as delicious, George muses, and he laughs excitedly at the heightening sensation of catching Dream off-guard, even for a moment. He’s never watched Dream’s fights on his projector or those playback pages they sell at the newsstand on the corner of his street, but he knows for a fact that here, he’s facing off with a man who’s _never lost a fight,_ a man who wins. And more than danger, more than fear, more than the risk of losing his chance at everything he’s ever dreamed, George finds himself motivated by the thought of besting him. Not for the world, or the crowd, or Schlatt’s projections as his voice calls out a quip and George’s name for all to hear, but for himself, and for Dream. To show him humility. 

His feet plant themselves firmly on Dream’s shield, and he pushes through with the momentum of his jump, driving the hard metal edge of the buffer straight into Dream’s gut. He gasps in pain, and as the champion begins to stumble and fall backwards, George follows through on the new trajectory created by pushing himself away from the shield, flipping backwards and dragging his sword upward, ripping the shield straight from Dream’s hands and forcing it flat to the ground with his sword. He lands on his feet behind the stolen tool, and yanks his sword roughly from it’s shattered wooden face. Dream, across the clearing where he’s been knocked to the ground, makes quick work of pulling himself back to his feet and tapping the small bronze button on the side of his deck holster- but George is faster. He can’t afford for Dream to cast another defense out of his inventory, not when he’ll know what to expect if George tries to pull his toothpicking sword-trick again. George reaches behind him to his back, and with a flick of his wrist, his crossbow is back from his inventory into his hand, an arrow notched. He sets the string and tugs the trigger with one harsh twitch of his finger, the bolt flying and catching Dream’s shirt against the tree behind him. Cursing, the other forgets his deck, kicking his feet forwards and generating enough pure momentum to flip his legs all the way over his head and curl them over a branch. Tugging himself violently by the hold, he rips his shirt off of the bolt, and grabs it out of the bark behind him as he moves to stand on the branch and then quickly clamber farther up the tree. He loses George’s watchful gaze easily there, and a silent moment of unease later, George is rolling out of the way as the bolt comes hurtling back at him, sticking itself in Dream’s broken shield where it lies on the ground. George turns around quickly, scanning the trees, trying to relocate Dream, but he can’t find him, and soon enough, he’s dancing around the open space in a series of jumps and spins that Dream’s barrage of arrows forces him through like a puppeteer tugging his strings. 

When it finally stops, George thinks for a moment that maybe Dream had grown bored, that he’d caught his eye on a new adversary. He pauses, sword readied, legs braced in preparation to duck or run or die.   
“Everyone has their chance, you know,” the words are gruff and dark, pushed down the back of George’s neck by the heavy breath of the man pinning him back against his chest. “That doesn’t mean shit. A chance is nothing but a moment.” The blade of Dream’s axe, cold white metal, presses against George’s neck. He doesn’t do as much as swallow, because he knows it’s all over if he does. 

“Dream,” he growls slowly, and he can feel Dream’s chest shake lightly with laughter where he’s pressed against his back, and can hear the soft wheeze of amusement in his ear.   
“What’s your name?” Dream asks, and it’s the last thing George expects. There’s little he can do now except answer, sword useless where it hangs limp at his side, hands loose with the knowledge that dropping it would just as quickly end him as raising it up once more.   
“George,” he murmurs. Everything feels much too quiet, the roar of the audience not quite permeating the arena enchantment in this exact spot and position where Dream holds him hostage. Dream shifts momentarily, and after a silent second, George feels his fingers gently prying the crystal blade away from him by the hilt, and he lets it happen, listening to the soft rustle of cards as Dream adds the weapon to his inventory. George breathes out deeply, shivering once with fear that isn’t quite touching his mind. Nothing ever feels entirely real here, projecting onto his golem, but then again, the warm presence of danger pressing it’s chest to his spine feels very real, almost more than if he’d been there himself.   
“George,” Dream muses, testing the name in his mouth, sinking his teeth into it and taking a bite as if it’s his to eat. “I like you, George,” he laughs, loud and manic, and George feels already like he’s heard that laugh a million times in his life.   
“Do you now,” George breathes, annoyance poisoning his words. Dream’s axe blade presses just that much closer to his skin.   
“I do,” Dream affirms, tone patient the way you would be with an upset toddler. “I’m sorry about this, really. You’d probably do well in the league, it would be _so_ fun facing you off again,” he presses closer, and George is struck with how odd this would be in any other circumstance, standing cheek to cheek with a man who’s holding an axe to his throat. His tone is quiet, just for George to hear, and he knows that Schlatt’s spells won’t be able to pick it up that low.   
“You can stop putting on your show,” George spits, anyways. So what if Dream’s words aren’t being broadcast, if he’s the only one who gets to hear them- there’s no doubt every projector in the nation is displaying their scene now, the rest of the arena ignored in favor of Dream’s dramatism. People ate that shit up last season, why is now any different? Dream keeps laughing, not moving his cheek from where it’s pressed to George’s own face.   
“My show,” Dream starts, loud and furious, before he cuts himself off and lowers his tone again. “My show is nothing. If I had my way, none of them would watch- I would cut down everyone in front of me, and nobody would know but me.” He takes a shuddering breath against George’s back, as if suddenly, breathing is something he’s never learned, presses his forehead forcefully into George’s cheek as if he needs the support, and continues. “My show,” he whispers, “is the price I pay for my time here. Every second I pump my fist and call for a cheer is another second I get to stand in this arena and play, every dramatic kill is another minute of-” he breaks himself off, the snap of his words deteriorating in a less than a moment to hang still and shattered around them.   
“They’re watching now,” George murmurs back, and he can _feel_ the stretch of Dream’s skin against his own as he smiles wide and gleeful. “What could you possibly be waiting for?”   
Dream pauses. His smile stills and stales, and George thinks maybe he’s hit some sort of mark.   
“For that feeling,” Dream finally replies, voice as low as the falling petal of a flower. “Where I know it’s good.” George lets his eyes slip shut. There it is- the chance. There’s always a chance somewhere, if you can just find it waiting.   
“How do you know if it’s good?” he breathes, and Dream’s death grip on his arms slackens, the axe drops a centimeter from his neck. “How could you- how could you ever be sure?”   
“I find the moment,” Dream says, flatly. “But…”

“It’s not there now.” George finishes for him, and he feels relief flood his veins, replacing stale, cold blood. It worked. Of course it worked, because he needed it. Sometimes, though, it was hard to tell when the need was a want, but the way he felt now, he’s sure he could have convinced the universe to do it anyways. “Dream,” he calls quietly, and the other man removes his cheek from George’s looking down at him in furious surprise.   
“What did you do?” he snarls, no longer silent. His grip tightens again, the axe presses just a little too deep to be comfortable. George’s eyes widened.   
“How did you know that I-” 

He’s saved by the crash of foliage as two figures- followed by two more- rush the clearing. One, taller than anyone George has ever seen, is pulling another, shorter man by the fabric of his red cloak. They both have pitch-black skin, and toothy frowns that spill far too many fangs. When they see Dream, they halt, and then the shorter one raises an eyebrow.   
“Dream, what the fuck are you doing? We could hear Schlatt talking about you, he said you were taking a little too long, and we figured we should come find you-”   
“And we’re being chased!” The taller one interrupts him, and shoves a thumb over his shoulder where the other two figures have burst from the trees. One, a fair-skinned man with pink hair and a pig’s-face mask obscuring his eyes, leaps straight back into battle, while the other, A blonde man with wide golden wings, pushes through the treeline to fly over them, shifting a crossbow between each of the other four figures in the clearing uneasily. Dream lets go of George instantly, diving to meet the pink-haired man’s axe with his own instead of allowing it to collide with the shorter man’s shoulder. 

“Head in the game, Sapnap!” Dream shouts, and the short man nods before launching himself into battle once more. The flying man aims his crossbow at the tall man, and readies to fire, but he hasn’t managed to release a bolt before Dream shouts another warning- “Above, Bad!”- and the tall man has turned with terrifying speed to grab the flying man’s ankle, flinging him in an arc through the air. The winged hunter steadies himself, his eye catching on George for a moment before Bad is pulling him back in. George doesn’t watch for long, sprinting away through the trees. The last sight he catches is Dream’s axe, splitting the pink-haired man’s mask in half, and then he’s gone. 

***

When the buzzer finally blasts, Technoblade and Philza are long since gone, having had enough sense to at least run away, and Dream would bet anything they’d managed to stay in the running since Phil scooped Techno up by the arms and flew away. He would have revealed in taking them down, but he supposes he’ll be seeing them again later. The spell fades slowly at first, and then fast, and soon Dream can see the audience, practically spilling out of the stands to cheer. He fights back his scowl, but he must not be doing a great job, because Bad reaches out to squeeze his arm. He looks up at the other, who nods once, and Dream nods back, forcing his smile back up. Sapnap, obviously not picking up the vibe, laughs and grins and chatters excitedly to the two of them- not that Dream is listening. When he finally does notice, he rolls his eyes.   
“Will you stop brooding? Nothing bad even happened,” Sapnap teases him, and Dream looks down at him, smiling tight-lipped. He shakes his head, as subtle as he can. Not now.   
Sapnap must finally take the hint, because he shuts up instantly. The three of them wait for Jebediah to hurry up and list those who made it through so they can leave, and Dream can see Sapnap looking impatiently up towards the Hollow Guard’s seating area above. As he scans the rest of the arena, he notices a few familiar faces- Technoblade and Phil have made it through, and a third man he’s never seen before leans on the handle of what else but a _wooden sword_ next to them- how did he manage that? The three of them laugh, and when the third man points his wooden sword over his shoulder at Bad, next to him, Dream throws up his middle finger in their direction, sticking a tongue out. When Bad notices, he smacks him upside the head.

“Be nice, muffinhead,” he mutters. It’s a warning, although Dream’s behavior doesn’t really constitute one that serious. Dream knows the warning isn’t meant for his actions towards Techno, anyways. This one’s deeper- _stop searching for trouble,_ Bad’s saying, _because I know you’re looking._

Bad doesn’t need to worry about Dream looking, because apparently, trouble is seeking him out. As soon as he turns back around, he meets eyes with the boy from earlier- George- and feels the smile slip entirely from his face. The boy grins triumphantly at him for a moment, but when he notices Dream’s apparent anger, his own smile falls away, and after a quick scan around him to see who else is near, George begins _walking towards him._ Is he stupid?   
Well, Dream realizes. It’s not like you can do anything to him now.   
“Hello,” George greets him carefully, like he’s feeling out the flexibility of something fragile and testing the limits of where it feels it will snap. 

“What is it?” Dream snaps, and George’s frown deepens. Bad’s fingers grip Dream’s arm tighter before Sapnap tugs his other hand, and he lets himself fall away from Dream. He’s thankful for Sapnap’s intervention- Bad has always looked out for him, but it’s hard for the older boy to realize when it’s time to let Dream handle things on his own.   
George’s eyes linger on Dream’s arm where Bad’s hand had been, and Dream loses his patience, snapping his fingers under George’s nose. He raises an eyebrow.   
“What. is it?” Dream repeats, stumbling over the words as he pushes them out through his teeth. George picks at his nails for a moment.   
“You tell me,” he replies, tone flat. It’s a question- _what do you think happened?_ _  
_ Dream isn’t sure if Jebediah’s spell is still going- they aren’t being projected in the stadium now, but who knows what they’re showing on the broadcast. He lowers his tone to a whisper, tugging George forward so he can hear.   
“What did you do?” Dream hisses, and George hums, contemplating his options.   
“What do you think that I did.” He finally replies. It’s not a question this time, not at all. Dream can see by George’s face, his tone, that the fact that Dream knows anything is too much information. For a moment, he worries what he might be revealing about himself by letting George see that he knows.   
“I don’t know,” Dream grumbles, fury creeping into his voice again. “I felt it. I felt you… _take_ something.”   
George’s expression is grim. He nods once, pulling away from Dream. He’s about to leave entirely when Dream catches his arm.   
“Hey,” he huffs. “Tell me what you did!” George stills in his grasp, turning back to face him once more. For a moment, their eyes meet, gazes fire and ice, raging hot anger and cold with protected secrets.   
“No.” He finally says, and in a moment, he’s gone- disappearing back into the milling crowd of players who’ve passed the preliminary game. 

***

That’s too close- far too close- to the truth. George is disquieted, unnerved, and as soon as he knows Dream can no longer see him, he dashes farther, faster, until he’s on the opposite side of the arena. _“I felt you take something,”_ the words ring in his head. He has no clue how Dream could possibly know that. There’s never been any trace to go with it before, not even any magic- it’s _not_ magic, so how could he possibly know?   
George doesn’t even know what it is- all he knows is that he can do it. He’s been doing it since he was little, when his parents were away at work and when the kids at elementary school were mean to him. Stealing chances. The first time he’s done it, in danger of being punched by a school bully, he’d searched for a chance at escape, and he’d felt it- that _snap_ in his gut. The classroom door next to them had flung open by itself, slamming his bully’s head against the wall. He’d crumpled, and George had run. The next day, the boy hadn’t been at school. Again, when his mom had come to watch the magician’s showcase at his school, disappointed glare turned on George as he stepped up to the podium. He’d been messing up his assigned spell every time he’d practiced it for weeks, and his mom expected better. He knew how disgraced she would be to see him fail. He dug deep, searching for a chance at his success, and then there it was, that _snap-_ and suddenly, he felt magic rush to his fingers like he’d known how to direct its flow forever. The kid after him, the best ranked in their grade, had his spell fizzle out and fail. He’d never cast a spell again for all the time George knew him, but from that day on, magic had come easily to George. 

_“I felt you take something,”_ Dream had said to him. What had he taken? What chance had he stolen away. It could have been anything. The chance to win their fight- the chance to win the league. It could have been more, less- anything or nothing. _The chance to survive._   
George is being ushered out of the arena with the rest of the hunters before he can comprehend that the event is entirely over, and he can see Dream coming over to him again out of the corner of his eye. He flits away for the second time, not ready to face more questioning. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to face Dream again, not without knowing what it is that he’s stolen. He wonders if he’s taken too much. 

He pilots his golem half-heartedly after that, focusing only when the sponsors of the league direct him to his locker. He steps inside, closes and locks it from the inside. He can see, for a brief and terrifying moment, Dream’s mask through the slits in the metal door, seeing him jostle the locked door. He severs his projection, and scrambles to his feet, pushing open his closet door. He shakes, stumbles over his feet as he moves. He has to take a moment to brace his weight against the wall as he trips over himself, and when he can move again, he sprints to his mattress, winding himself in a cocoon of blankets. He shakes, for a while. When it goes away, he sits quietly. He waits for a while, and the sun starts to lower, disappearing from his open window. When he pulls himself up and out of his room, he finds Fundy in the kitchen, mumbling to himself and filling the kettle with water. He stands awkwardly for a moment in the door of the kitchen before Fundy notices him, and when he does, he smiles, springing forward for a hug.  
“George! I saw that you passed the preliminary,” he sings happily. “Congrats, I- oh.” He falls short as he pulls out of the hug and sees George’s face. “I’ll finish the tea,” he says hurriedly. George nods mutely, and Fundy quickly puts the kettle on, glancing at George worriedly before reaching into the icebox and fishing out some small leftover cakes from the week before. He slides one to George, who stares at it for a moment before picking it up and biting it. It’s sweet, strawberry and chocolate. He lets himself smile, only because Fundy is watching. 

“It happened again,” he whispers. Fundy doesn’t meet his eyes, instead opting to pour boiling water into mugs and stir in the tea. George knows he doesn’t want to talk about this. He has to. “Fundy.” 

“Yeah, I- yeah,” fundy replies meekly. His tail droops and his ears flatten against his head for a moment. He brings George one of the mugs, taking the other for himself and sitting on the stool next to him. 

“I don’t know what I took,” he continues. “And I’m scared.”   
It takes Fundy another minute to respond, but George doesn’t blame him for it. When he does, he refuses to look up from the murky water in his mug.   
“I thought you said you were getting better at controlling it,” Fundy mumbles. George freezes, his own mug halfway to his lips.   
“I- I was,” he replies slowly, “I am.” Fundy’s eyes shoot up, brow furrowed and mouth set deep into a frown. 

“Then how did it happen? Were you hurt that badly? I was watching for you near the end, on Nikki’s projector, and your doll looked completely fine, so-”  
“I knew I was doing it.” George cuts him off shortly, and boy does it shut him up. His ears- which were flicking anxiously back and forth before- go flat against his hair, and his eyes narrow. 

“George, you said you would stop,” he mumbles. The hurt offense in his tone is enough to make George guilty alone, but-  
“I was going to be taken out!” he rushes out, and Fundy places his tea mug a little too forcefully back on the counter as he stands and backs away.   
“What so- so that’s it? Things aren’t going your way so you break your promise?” Fundy hisses, his tail fluffed in anger and curled over his thigh. Now it’s George who won’t meet his gaze, looking anywhere but his roommate. “You told me you would stop taking, Gods above, you told me you _had_ stopped! And now you come home moping about as if- as if this is somehow _your_ problem, and you don’t even know what you’ve taken!” His eyes are wide with rage.   
“Fundy, it wasn’t that serious, I just needed to escape and I-”   
“And what? You thought it would be worth risking someone else’s life? Someone else’s magic?!” He shakes his head, laughing hysterically. “I can’t believe you!”   
“Fundy! I wasn’t looking for it, ok, it just found me and I grabbed on before I could even figure it out.”   
“Like you did to me.” Fundy responds curtly. George opens his mouth to retort, shuts it again. He glares at his tea. “Exactly.”   
“I- we don’t know that. We don’t know it’s gone for good,” George whispers. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear splashes in his tea, and he hurriedly swipes at his eyes with his sleeve. “You told me that it felt like it was coming back,” he adds, voice small and tired. Fundy sighs, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.   
“Gods, George. It is, you know? I enchanted the flower box on Sunday,” he laughs, a little bubble of joy that doesn’t quite have a place in the room. “But you know that it’s not enough. Maybe it’ll all come back eventually, but there’s barely anything now. Who knows if I’ll last long enough to see it return,” he whispers, closing his eyes and sinking to the floor against the wall opposite George in the room.   
“It has to,” George pleads to nobody in particular, and Fundy shakes his head, lips drawn up in a cruel smile. 

“It might. But that doesn’t matter anymore.” He waits a moment- feels out the room, sees if George will protest. He doesn’t; he knows Fundy is right. “You took so much of my life away,” Fundy finally continues. “And I’ve made my peace. You’ve helped set me back from it- and I’m grateful for all the help, especially when you had no obligation to even tell me what you’d done. But you don’t get to do the same to somebody new, you don’t get to slip up again. You owe me that.”  
The room is pregnant with the silence that follows. George takes another dragging sip of tea, Fundy lets out a shaky sigh.   
“Ok. I promise,” he finally whispers, and Fundy nods once, deal done, and pact sealed. 


	3. An Acolyte's Draw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you so afraid of?” he mumbles. George doesn’t reply, and Clay worries his hand through his hair for a moment. “So afraid, and so confused. You won’t tell me,” he growls. He looks mad, but not at George, and for that, he is grateful.   
> “Maybe I will,” George huffs softly. “If you ask." 
> 
> I literally can't summarize this without spoiling almost all of it dksjghfd   
> Features Fundy, George, Schlatt, Tubbo, Tommy (mentioned), Wilbur (also mentioned), Karl, Dream (unmasked as Clay), and Eret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up being super long because of everything I had to cram in! Hopefully it isn't too confusing.

The next time George leaves the apartment is nearly a week later. When he does, it’s Fundy who forces him to go, dragging him out of his shitty closet-converted-blackroom to get groceries. If he tries to complain, Fundy isn’t having it-  _ “I’m not the one who committed an unspeakable atrocity,”  _ he singsongs,  _ “and I’m not the one who’s been sitting cross-legged in a closet for five days.”  _ He’s right on both accounts, so George finds himself eating a real breakfast- a muffin with jam, and coffee- and pulling on the leather boots that Fundy had given him on the eve of last winter’s lighting ceremony. They’re tall and brownish-tan, coming all the way up to his knee. They’re tight enough that he has to wear leggings if he wants to wear them, but he doesn’t mind, and his cloak is big enough to drape over most of his thigh anyways. He shakes his hand through his hair, grimacing when he realizes how greasy it is. He’s already dressed, though, so he cups his hands under the tap in the kitchen and tosses the palmful of water into it to make it look a little cleaner without having to stop and wash it. Fundy snickers at him from behind the paper, and George snickers back at him for reading the fucking paper. He’s subscribed to  _ Faust’s Comet,  _ which isn’t even that accurate or relevant- the most accurate column in it is probably the community review, which consists of short opinion pieces submitted by readers. There’s probably one that Fundy  _ wrote  _ in there, now that he considers it, because of course Fundy would send an opinion piece to  _ Faust’s Comet.  _

“I’m going,” George calls to him, leaning around the frame of their entrance hall- which is more of a tiny entrance corner- and clicks his boot against the stone floor. Fundy hums in response, not looking up from his paper. 

“Get eggs,” he replies lazily. “I used the last one on the muffins.”    
“Sure,” George replies easily, and twists through the entryway without another word. The wooden deck outside is suspended along the inside-facing walls of the U-shaped apartment building where Fundy and George live, moss and vines tumbling down it’s side to rest fiendishly against the weedy stone path in the courtyard below. A goat, tied to a lone wooden post between the yard and the gated archway to the street, gnaws away at a particularly delicious vine. George slides down the stair railing and dodges the grumpy animal as he makes his way towards the entryway, but the goat brays loudly at him, and he groans as the sound of a window shuttering open follows the sudden noise. A boy leans his head out of it, grinning brightly. 

“George! Hello!” he looks up wearily at the call. 

“Hi, Tubbo,” George sighs. Tubbo is a good kid, but he’s not sure he wants to deal with him right now. He’s energetic and spirited, and George knows he’ll get roped into some scheme or other if he sticks around. If he stays too long, Tubbo’s best friend Tommy will probably show up, and then he’ll be stuck sitting in the courtyard while a child makes fun of his shirt. Usually, his solution to get away would be snapping, or saying something rude. But when Tubbo’s up early, so is-

“Gods, George, who spit in your asshole this morning? You look like you just got kicked in the nuts.” 

When Tubbo’s up early, so is his father- George’s landlord. A second head joins Tubbo in leaning out of the window, and George’s fake smile falls away. He groans.    
“Good Morning to you too, Schlatt,” he grumbles, and the other man grins wickedly. He leans further out the window, his arms resting on the ledge, and his horns bang against the window frame- and Tubbo’s- clacking noisily against his son’s much smaller horns. 

“Georgie, that play against Dream yesterday- goddamn! That was some hot shit,” he whistles, and his son laughs brightly. How the two have so much energy so early, George will never know.    
“I saw it, George! Do you think you can teach me that move, with the shield? I’ve got tryouts in the fall at institute, I would definitely get in if you helped me!” Tubbo stares at him hopefully, and George frowns slightly deeper.

“Oh, uh- I mean, I could try to help a bit, but I’m going to be busy this summer,” He says, “With leagues and all.”    
“You’re not that far in, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Schlatt scoffs. “You don’t even have a team!”    
“Hey, you don’t know that!” George huffs indignantly, and Schlatt shakes his head, laughing. 

“The only person who’s been into your apartment besides you and Fundy since last winter has been Wilbur,” Schlatt sneers. “And he’s already got a team.”    
“He does?” George asks worriedly, and then- “I mean- yeah, I know.” Schlatt cackles, hunching over and leaning dangerously far out of his window before Tubbo snags one of his horns, tugging him sharply back and sneering at him playfully.    
“Hey!” Schlatt hisses, prying Tubbo’s hand away. His attention flits back to George quickly, though, and he smirks down at him. “Better find someone to join up with soon, Georgie, team qualifiers are only a week away,” He winks at George for good measure- because why the fuck wouldn’t he, it’s Schlatt- and pulls back from the window, tugging Tubbo with him by the horn before slamming it back down into place. 

George leaves quicker after that; he doesn’t want to be out too late, and he really does need to get groceries. They’re running low at the apartment, and he isn’t about to argue with Fundy over who has to go after what happened at the preliminary- and their conversation after. 

_ You thought it would be worth risking someone else’s life? Someone else’s magic? _

He doesn’t want to think about the implications behind those words, think about how right they are. That he’s selfish, egotistical, cold-hearted. Fundy knows better than anybody what lengths George will go to for others, but he also knows better than anybody that George is driven by guilt more than any sense of empathy. He’d taken Fundy’s magic when they were only kids, when he didn’t understand, and since then he’d devoted his life to paying the reparations. He’s still paying the reparations for it, and for… other things.  _ Someone else’s life. _

George’s feet carry him into the market square before he even recalls that he began moving, and he’s browsing stalls as if everything is normal, as if he’s not weighed down by the thought of what he could do to any one of the people around him if he was startled, if he was injured. He buys three tomatoes. He breathes. He bargains the price of a dozen eggs down three coins. He lets himself get distracted, he buys a case of milk and a jar of cacao powder. He tries to keep himself calm, even when every figure in the streets seems like a target he’s trying to aim his gaze away from. 

Life becomes easy when you stop focusing on it, George has found, and he’s memorized the skill of zoning himself out just the same as he has projecting to his golem; it’s second nature, as easy as breathing. He doesn’t even have to think about it, and isn’t that the point? 

He goes for almost half the day like that, and soon enough, he’s wandering through the market with a large brown bag of groceries clutched tightly under his arm. He’s about ready to head home, because he can’t think of anything else that they need. He’s considering the worth of shelling out a couple extra coins to buy Fundy a surprise- maybe a slice of cake or some kind of little trinket for his room- when his attention is finally pulled back to the waking world.

“What do you mean, he isn’t here?” 

“We’re looking for him. We’ve been looking.”   
“So what, Eret, he said he would be here!” George moves himself casually closer- hovering over a wheeled cart draped with colorful silks and patterned fabrics. The two men to his left don’t seem to notice him, but he notices them, and although the taller of the two stands shrouded in a dark gray cloak that hides his face well, George recognizes his voice- and his name. His cousin squares his shoulders beneath his cloak, and his boots shift heavily over the cracking stone ground of the market square. 

“He said he would be here,” Eret says cooly, “and he isn’t.” Although George can’t see his face, he knows that tone, and the expression that goes with it.  _ A final straw. _

“Clay  _ said _ he would be here, and he  _ will  _ be here.” The other replies, and although he too is shrouded by fabric of a purple so deep it’s almost black, George can spot the tell-tale swish of a white tunic underneath. He’s with the Hollow Guard, and George knows then that whatever eavesdropping he was planning on needs to come to a close, and quickly. It’s one thing if Eret recognizes him shopping, calls hello, and waves him away. It’s quite another if the king, incognito with one of the most powerful magicians in the state, catches him spying on the business of the throne. He knows that what happens then- that it will count. Eret had made that quite clear. 

_ “You are my cousin, George. But you are not my friend, and you are not my ally. I have a nation to run.” _

“A promise to show up means nothing, Karl. You can’t trust him. You put too much stock in his words, and they’re worthless,” It isn’t George that Eret is threatening now, but it will be soon if he’s spotted. He can’t spare his pitying thoughts for Eret’s guard when there’s danger in being seen. He needs to leave, or hide, but if he moves too quickly- too conspicuously- he’s bound to be caught. 

A moment later, George finds his ticket to escape from view. As a third man wanders into the near-abandoned corner of the market district, Eret and his guard turn away to face him, and George takes the liberty of ducking behind the fabric cart he’s been pretending to browse; the vendor is away for the moment, and with two shrouded figures waiting for a meeting in the most quiet corner of market district, George doubts he’ll wander back soon. It’s dangerous down here, and it’s not worth a stolen wrap of silk to be caught up in the workings of organized crime.   
Eret and his guard- Karl, he’d called him- don’t catch George’s quick movement as they face away from him, but George can see the third man’s eye catch dangerously on his own as he ducks under cover. The man looks away quickly, though, and George is grateful. Hidden is good, but being  _ caught _ hidden is dangerous. Being caught meeting in secret with the king is dangerous too, though, and George wonders what motivation the man in the emerald-green cloak could possibly have for letting him eavesdrop. 

“I told you he would show,” Karl sighs, relief evident in his tone. Eret grumbles, waving him off.

“Clay,” he greets instead, and the new figure, tall and lithe under his cloak, bends slightly at the hip in a mockery of a bow. He smiles widely, his hood down, face bare for anyone to see and identify. “You’re late,” Karl snarls at Clay, annoyance evident in his tone. “You told me midday, and that’s what  _ I  _ told  _ Eret. _ ” His words are sharp and heavy with implication-  _ you’re being disrespectful _ . Clay just laughs lightly, like he hasn’t got a care in the world. What kind of man laughs at that kind of warning? Laughs, when he’s told to respect his own king? 

“It’s not like I would go dark on you,” he hums absently. “It would be a breach of our contract.”    
“You’re goddamn right it would,” Eret replies, tone clipped to the syllable. “And you know what a breach of our contract means for you.” The threat darkens the mood quickly- Clay stiffens, frowns, and Karl whips his head to face Eret in shock. 

“I do,” Clay replies slowly. “And so do you.” His statement hangs open in the air, although George has no clue what it might mean. They have a deal, obviously keeping Clay in Eret’s good graces. It’s clear that a ‘breach of our contract’ for him implies blood, death, imprisonment. What Eret gains from the alliance, George couldn’t guess. But he can listen, and he does. 

“You can say what you’d like,” Eret hisses through his teeth. “As long as you don’t break my trust. You can prove yourself now, if you’d like, because we both know you have some explaining to do.” Clay relaxes with the invitation, his shoulders slumping as he leans forward slightly. He’s only a few inches taller than Eret, but the motion makes waves in the air around them, and suddenly, the king that George fears so deeply looks small. 

“Of course, your grace,” Clay sneers, then straightens once more, evening his tone. “I have information for you about the disturbance.” The lilt of his voice is playful and mocking. Eret’s eyes narrow. 

“As you stated. What is it?” he questions slowly, but it’s clear that his patience runs thin. For all the time he spends playing monarch, George knows better than anybody how delicately his control really extends. He’s a pawn to his own system, his guards puppeting him to support their ends and playing his treasurers to their mercy on the side. Really, it’s better for everybody that way, but say that to Eret, and… well, George knows what will happen. It isn’t pretty, and his thread of good graces has always worn that way. It’s not different now, with Clay towering over him, taunting him. Eret is angry, and he doesn’t stand for insolence when he’s mad. George fears the flash of a blade or spell, too fast to be warned for, but it never comes. 

“Someone in the preliminary-” Clay hums slowly, pulling at that thread- “was using power. Big power, almost as big as Karl’s,” he grins, and George notices how  _ sharp  _ his teeth are. He doesn’t look human, when he smiles like that. 

“We  _ know  _ that,” Karl interjects hurriedly, his gaze flicking nervously to Eret’s expression. “I felt it in the stands, so did the others. We all got hit, hard,” He doesn’t wait for Eret’s permission to speak, and George would usually find humor in the way his cousin shuffles his feet and picks at his rings, but his mood is stopped short by Clay’s words. Big power, someone in the preliminary. He stills himself as much as he physically can, makes himself small. Clay’s gaze flicks over the cart that obscures him for a moment, then back to Eret. 

“I know something you don’t know,” he purrs lowly, and there’s a flash of gray fabric tugged back by the force of gravity as Eret flies forward to bunch Clay’s collar in his fist, dragging him down to eye-level. 

“Anything you know, I know.” Eret seethes. “And what I don’t know, you tell me. That’s in our  _ agreement _ .” He spits, saliva flicking off of his tongue to wet the gold embroidery on the neckline of Clay’s cloak. He frowns, brushes it away. 

“Even Karl knows things you don’t,” Clay growls. “You’re useless. You’d be better off in the dark, The whole nation would be. I know it, Karl knows it, you know it too.” George’s eyes widen, and he knows in the twist of his gut that he’s about to witness an execution. No deal, no matter how important, can outlast Eret’s royal rage. The short croak of death doesn’t come, though, and Clay stares into Eret’s eyes, gaze hard and cold. After a moment, Eret drops his shirt, and Clay towers over him once more. 

“Tell Karl and be done with it,” Eret finally hisses, eyes slitted and resigned. Clay smirks as Eret steps away from him, turning his vicious glare to Karl.    
“Your grace, I-” Karl begins nervously, but Eret raises his hand to cut him short, turning quickly away. 

“You, Karl, may find your own way back to the castle. I’ll be off.” Karl watches his back as the King wanders off, cloak dragging on market streets as he marches away with wounded pride. His expression of nervous loyalty fades quickly once Eret cannot see him, turning solemn and hard as the nation’s leader fades from sight. 

  
“Tell your friend to come out,” he says finally, when Eret is long gone. “He’s really going back, he won’t watch us.” 

“I know,” Clay hums. “I could tell. For someone with so much power, his intention is easy to read.”    
“Come out,” Karl calls again when no motion is stirred. George freezes as best he can, hoping that another man lies hidden across the way, waiting. A moment later, though, Clay is calling him by name. He clambors slowly from behind the stall, brushing a loose swath of diamond-blue silk out of his way. He stands as surely as he can, but Karl raises an eyebrow. 

“You brought him with you? He’s got groceries.” Karl laughs, and George blinks, shifting the brown bag under his arm. 

“I’m not with him,” he huffs. “I was just shopping, and I saw you meeting.” 

“Why hide and spy if you’re not with Clay?” Karl hums, skeptical. Clay waves a hand, though, and responds so that George doesn’t have to. 

“I was surprised to see him here, honestly,” Clay hums. “But I’m not displeased. Our issue concerns him.” 

“How so?” Karl asks, eyebrow tilted and skeptical. “I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s not in the Guard, or a Knight.” 

“Might as well be, because that’s your man,” Clay murmurs quietly, slowly. “The one who was casting.” Karl’s eyes widen in shock, and he stares for a moment. His eyes flit from George’s face, to his hands, then to his bag of groceries. He grimaces as if Clay is telling a particularly bad joke. 

“ _ Him? _ ” he huffs. “He- he looks-” he cuts himself off, face screwing up as he considers it. “Whatever, is he really our guy? This is serious, Clay, and I need to know.” 

“He is.” Clay assures him, and George stills. The one who was casting- they’re talking about what he did to Dream, and he knows it. It seems they don’t know what he’s done, and they don’t know how he’s done it. That’s most likely what they’re looking to find out. A small hope in George’s chest squirms, wondering if maybe they can help, but a deeper gravity settles on his feet, which know he should be running away. This isn’t good; this is trouble. 

“I’m  _ what _ ?” George asks forcefully, shakily. He’s hoping for an out, to convince them that he’s not the guy they’re looking for. 

“You,” Clay starts, staring at him evenly, “have power. And you used it on somebody during the hunt preliminaries.” 

George shivers under his even gaze. He could do it again, if he needs to. If he  _ really  _ needs to. 

“I- yeah, I’m a magician, I was projecting into my golem to fight. I don’t know what you-”

“Not magic. Power.” Karl cuts his words short, serious. George doesn’t really know what he means, but he gives up on trying to weasel his way out. It won’t get him anywhere- Clay is sure it was him, and Karl seems to trust his judgement enough to go along with it. “How did you know?” Karl finally asks Clay, and his frown deepens. He leans away from George, so close to Karl that his mouth almost brushes the guard’s ear. He whispers so that George can’t hear.

“Because he used it on  _ me.”  _

Karl’s face darkens in an instant, and he recoils from Clay as if he’s been burned. 

“What?” he asks, fear lacing his tone. “Clay, you-”   
“No,” Clay cuts him off shortly. “He can’t know.” George stares the two down, confusion muddying his train of thought. He feels himself shutting down, angry and lost, but right now he needs to be on. 

“I can’t know what?” he asks, frustrated. Clay shoots Karl a warning glance before turning back to him, and George feels white hot rage brush at the place where his spine meets his skull. His neck burns. 

***

“That, I cannot tell you,” Clay says evenly. He takes a step forward; George takes a step back. Clay’s lip curls at the action, and he steps back as well, giving up on crowding into George’s space. Maybe if he steps again, George will startle, run. It’s the last thing he wants right now. He wants an answer, he wants assurance. Deeper, though, he holds an intrigue to the flame of desire, and he wants for new loyalty.

_ Some desires are better left untouched, _ Clay’s subconscious warns him dully. 

_ But it is the nature of angels to seek alliance _ , he bites back,  _ and the nature of power to seek a following _ . 

“Listen carefully,” he starts speaking before he even recognizes his lips have parted, but the words spill from them in a string of pre-formed thought he has not yet identified in spoken language. He lets the yarn fall and bunch on the ground between them, letting his words hang from his teeth where the string is uncut. 

“You and I will be seeing more of each other. You’ve done something dangerous,” he grins. “That much I know, but I have yet to discern what it is that you’ve done.” George takes another step back, and Clay’s grin drops for just a moment before returning.  _ Don’t run, George _ , he thinks.  _ Stay with me. _

The thought startles him; a desire for power over a new person, a new plaything, that is familiar. The feeling that coils in his fingertips now is different, possessive. He’d felt the same tug fighting George in the preliminary, shield crumbling in his arms like sand and danger to his body present. He had wanted all too badly to let George win in that moment, felt drawn to his blade like it was made to behead him. The feeling is different now, out of battle, and he thinks he would be all too happy to steal George away like a stray cat from an alleyway and take him home. 

“You are going to be under my watch,” he hisses through bared teeth, corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He won’t let this one run, not like last time. He’ll finish this fight- and win. “Because The Guard wants you surveyed, and we have a deal. You report to me, I report to Karl.” He forces himself to bite off his words. He can’t make a rash decision now, not without a mask to keep him safe from it’s consequences. 

_ A mask would keep you safe from the consequences.  _ He bites back the manic laugh that bubbles in his chest at the thought, grasps at ideas that’s materialized there. 

“And another thing, a request someone has relayed to me, if you’re interested…” he trails off. This is a terrible idea, and it’s sure to end badly; It’s the best choice he’s made in his life. 

“Dream,” he begins, and George freezes, eyes wide. “Yes, the one you used a power on,” he drawls, savoring the words. He waits for George to take another step back, but it doesn’t come. The shorter boy steels himself, legs shaking slightly, and Clay’s grin is real again, because he knows this was the right choice. He’s got George in the palm of his hand, and he’s about to have him in two. 

  
“Since the team rules have changed for The Hunt this season, Dream has requested you join his team. I would advise you to accept.”

***

George doesn’t realize he’s crying until he breathes in, and air comes rushing into his lungs, making him hiccup softly. He wipes quickly at his eyes, carefully shoving his brown paper bag of groceries onto the silk cart’s counter to do so. He shrinks in on himself, refusing to observe Clay and the Guard’s reaction to his outburst. He can’t, because what will he do if it frightens him, panics him? He’ll do something dangerous, something that will change their minds on his immediate execution. 

He doesn’t want to see the dagger being drawn as Clay’s boots shuffle heavily over the cracked stone beneath them. He doesn’t want to see the symbols traced into air as Karl’s tunic shifts over his shoulders.

He doesn’t open his eyes when delicate fingers pry his hands off of his cheeks or when they brush away his tears, and he doesn’t look up when soft white fabric engulfs his torso. He does open them, though, when a finger  _ tap-taps _ on his shoulder, and he feels the weight of cold and rotting fear dissipate from his gut. Clay is pulling a dark string of it off of his collarbone, twisting it around his fingers and grimacing at it like it’s a particularly gross meal. 

“You’ve got too much dread,” he huffs. “It’s making you difficult.”

George feels light as he watches Clay consider the slimy sludge on his fingertips, scrunch his face up in disgust, and drop it down his throat, swallowing thickly. He coughs in disgust, and Karl releases George from his hold, then. George is cold with the removal of what had felt like the warmth of a hug from somebody familair, although he knows that Karl would not have embraced him if he hadn’t needed the support while Clay took… his dread? 

  
“What did you do?” George asks quietly, tears still streaming over his face although he feels much calmer now. They don’t seem to stop, and he waits. Clay’s answer stalls as his eyes glaze over, and then widen, and he stares at George in fear. 

“What are you so afraid of?” he mumbles. George doesn’t reply, and Clay worries his hand through his hair for a moment. “So afraid, and so confused. You won’t tell me,” he growls. He looks mad, but not at George, and for that, he is grateful. 

“Maybe I will,” George huffs softly. “If you ask. All you two have been doing is- is standing there, accusing me, and I don’t know-” He stifles another sob, and Clay reaches over to pull at his shoulder again, but thinks better of it when Karl shoots him a glare.

“Not too much,” Karl warns. “Remember last time? He can handle it himself.” George cowers slightly from the both of them, hand rubbing at the place where Clay had touched him before, where that gross viscous drudge had seeped from his skin. 

“Right,” Clay sighs. “I won’t. I haven’t done it in a while, so I shouldn’t have more,” he mumbles to himself more than either of the others, and George manages to brush aside his confusion, taking a deep breath. Clay is right; his dread is making him difficult. No matter what happens now, it will do no good to panic. And it would do even less to lose control of his magic again. 

“You say all we have to do is ask,” Karl speaks slowly, as if he might startle George and break him. Although he’s beginning to calm down anyways, George is grateful for the extra processing time. “So if I ask… will you tell us what you did to C- to Dream?”

George shoots him a weary look, sighing deep in the back of his ribcage. 

“I- I will. But I have questions, too. And I want to… to come to an agreement. I’ll cooperate with whatever conditions Clay has,” he waves his hand at the tall emerald-clad man, brain too fried to put in much more effort, “but I’m going to have conditions too.” 

“What kind of conditions?” Karl asks slowly. George frowns. 

“Let’s go somewhere we can sit. Please,” he adds. “And I’d like to drop these off at home, too, my roommate is probably worried.” He shrugs the previously cast-aside bag of groceries back under his arm, and turns on his heel, beginning to walk home. He doesn’t wait for an answer, and he’s grateful when he hears both other men begin to follow him. As he rounds the corner, he sees Clay shrug his hood up, and Karl wraps his cloak tighter around his torso. George follows suit to the two of them, obscuring his face and clothing as best he can. 

***

When Clay is just running towards the end of his patience, sure that George is leading them nowhere and stalling for time, the shorter man rounds a hidden corner. Suddenly, the three of them are ducking through a familiar archway, and Clay frowns. 

“Karl, isn’t this-” he begins, and Karl nods. This is where Jebediah lives, Clay’s been here once before. He’s sure Karl has made more frequent trips, and he wonders if George is involved with him somehow as well. If he was, though, he’d probably have recognized Karl. He doubted that, based on the way George had acted, and the taste of his fear that still lingered on Clay’s tongue. He wondered if it would be awkward to ask him for a glass of water. 

As the three of them came to rest in the courtyard, George turned to face them again.    
“I’m going to drop these off and let F- let my roommate know I’ll be out,” he says slowly. “So figure out where we’re going and I’ll be right back.” He turns again to step away, but Clay knows better, and reaches out to snatch his wrist. He’s pulled backwards, stumbling with a yelp, and Clay hears a small clatter of something bumping into glass. He scans the courtyard, but nothing pops out at him as suspicious. 

“No way, pretty boy,” he hisses. “You’re not going inside alone. We don’t even know if this is your house, we’re coming in.”  _ He isn’t letting George get away.  _ He won’t. He needs to know what this man has done to him, and even more than that, he  _ wants  _ to keep George. He feels a tug of frustration at the need to  _ possess  _ that’s taken him over, but no self-criticisms he can make will quell it, so he lives on. 

“Fine.” George agrees, teeth clamped and tone muffled. He opens his door, stepping inside and holding it for the two of them to follow. Clay follows close behind, and Karl closes it softly behind him. 

“Jebediah’s watching from the window,” he hisses in Clay’s ear as George moves into a small kitchenette, putting groceries away. Clay curses softly, and George looks up, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well, come in. We might as well stay here, since you insisted on joining me inside.” He huffs, and gestures to the stools on the opposite end of the counter to himself. The two wander slowly inside, taking the seats, and George pulls up his own stool to sit across from them once he’s placed his case of milk into the icebox. 

“Tell me what you  _ know  _ I did.” He says evenly. It strikes Clay that he seems entirely different from before, as if the short walk home has drained him of any fear he’s ever had. It frustrates him in a way he doesn’t expect to know that George isn’t cowering away from him, anymore. 

“We know that you used power during the preliminary,” Karl replies, “and that you used it on Dream.” 

“You said before that it was ‘power, not magic,’” George says slowly, “but I don’t know what that means. What’s the difference?” Karl’s brow furrows in confusion. 

“You mean you don’t know?” He asks softly, and George hesitates for only a moment before shaking his head. 

“No, I don’t.” He says, and waits. Karl looks at Clay as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed to continue, but Clay just shrugs. 

“Well… it’s power, like it sounds. It’s sort of like magic in a  _ way,  _ but power runs deeper. It’s old, and you can’t learn it from a book,” Karl murmurs. “You’re born with it, but usually you can’t use it unless someone, sort of, unlocks it for you?” he shrugs. “It’s hard to explain. I’m just confused how you can have one that powerful without having been invited to the Guard,” he adds.    
“Is the Guard where they… unlock them?” George asks. Clay watches his face. George is trying to understand, he really is, but he just isn’t getting it. 

“No,” Clay answers before Karl can reply. “An angel has to do it. But the Guard is the only organization in the nation with access to divine communications.” He doesn’t explain further; it’s enough for George to conceptualize where power comes from on his own- heaven. Clay doesn’t need to explain his own involvement with the Guard to make that clear. 

“Oh,” George breathes softly. “But I’ve never met an angel.” Clay has to stop himself from laughing, and Karl shoots him a glare. 

“You obviously have, at some point, which is worrisome. We don’t know who it was, or where, or when, and neither do you. This is new, and it could be dangerous,” Karl hums. 

“It could have been him,” Clay replies quietly after a moment. “You know.”  _ Jebediah.  _ He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows Karl will pick it up. He nods quietly. 

“Likely, since he’s got George so close,” Karl sighs. “I’ll have to discuss it with him tomorrow. He’ll be expecting me, most likely.” George chooses to ignore the snippet of unintelligable conversation. What they won’t explain, they won’t, and there’s nothing he can do at that point. There’s no point throwing a hissy fit to learn state secrets as long as he can get himself a good deal. 

“So I’ve got power, then,” George reaffirms. “What does that mean for you?” 

“ _ Normally  _ it means you join the Hollow Guard,” Karl hisses, glaring at Clay. “But Clay has made you another offer. Without consulting me.” Clay shrugs, face unchanged. 

“Like I said earlier. I check up on you, then report to Karl. You won’t need to join the Guard, we can keep an eye on you, and I get to see you every day.” He grins maliciously, baring his teeth at George, who rolls his eyes. Clay ignores the pang of annoyance he feels at the action. What had he expected him to do, swoon? He wasn’t even sure why he was making a joke like that in the first place- and in such a serious situation. 

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” he replies cooly. “I’ll do your dumb little check-ups. But I want your help, too.” He stares at Clay, his gaze hard and sure. He’s serious, but Clay isn’t even sure what he means by help. He raises an eyebrow, and George straightens his back, making himself barely an inch taller. It has its desired effect though, and Clay resigns himself to listen without commenting. “I need help with it. With controlling it, stopping it,” George’s voice is dark, low. Clay watches as his eyes shift, misty and resigned. “And reversing it.” 

“We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what it is,” Clay replies, and he realizes with surprise that his words are soft, laced with an offering of reassurance and comfort. George sighs, rubbing his hands tiredly at his eyes. 

“It’s- I don’t really know,” he whispers, voice shaking with a threat of further tears. Clay doesn’t feel like seeing him cry again, but at the same time, his fingers itch to brush salty water droplets off of George’s cheek again, to tug at his core and remove his sorrow. “I just… do it. Not on purpose, not usually,” he adds. “It’s like taking something, but I don’t always know what. Sometimes it’s luck, I think. Other times…” He trails off. Taking things? Luck? He isn’t sure what kind of power George could be describing. It’s nothing like the powers that  _ he’s  _ gifted, or the ones that the Archangel usually grants.  _ Taking things  _ sounds dark and gruesome, even for his tastes. 

“Other times?” he finally prods, and George refuses to meet his eyes. He doesn’t answer, but a moment later, the door swings open, and another man with red hair and a large foxtail trudges in, kicking off his boots. 

“George, I’m home! I got caught up with Tubbo and Wilbur, and- oh,” he stops short as he looks up, noticing the three of them at the table. His eyes flick from George, who’s battling tears, to Clay, to Karl, then back again to George, confused and unsure. He takes a hesitant step forward. “Uh. Hello? Hi, who are you?” he asks, and that’s when it hits him. The man feels empty, void. He’s rid of all magic, but the absence is hardly natural. Clay and Karl both whip around to face George again simultaneously, eyes wide with horror. 

“George?” Karl asks quickly, unsure, voice unsteady with discomfort. George shakes his head hurriedly. 

“He knows,” George mumbles softly. “It was… we were kids.” Across the room, the fox-boy’s ears fall flat against his head. 

“George.” He says, a warning. 

“I didn’t,” George replies quickly. “Just… it’s fine, okay? It isn’t new.” 

Fundy leaves for his room quickly, shutting the door softly behind him. Once he’s gone, the air is still and disquieted. Nobody wants to voice the unspoken observation- that George had taken someone’s magic. It remains silent even as George stands to get three glasses, filling them with water, and it’s silent as they sit and drink, meeting none of the other’s eyes. It’s silent as George stands to see them out, and as Clay and Karl fasten the hooks of their cloaks. It’s silent as the door swings open. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow night,” Clay murmurs quietly. “To check in.” 

“Sure.” George replies, and just like that, the door is shut. Clay feels a string snap taught as the latch clicks into place, holding him tight in his core. 

“Karl,” he says slowly, looking up to meet his friend’s eye. Karl looks back at him wearily; it’s been a long day. “I want to take him.” 

Karl lets out a shaky sigh, letting his hand fall so it knocks against Clay’s. He scoops up the taller man’s fingers with his own, intertwining them delicately. He tugs Clay to a soft stop, spinning him around to face his direction. Clay stares down at him, but Karl refuses to look up. 

“Dream,” he whispers back. “You promised. You agreed not to take an acolyte.” Clay lets himself breathe out shakily, and his forehead falls to knock clumsily against the top of Karl’s head. He knows that Karl is right; not taking an acolyte is part of his contract, and it’s a requirement to his alliance with the throne- and the Archangel. But George calls deeply to him in the pit of his belly, his image settling hazily over Clay’s chest where his heart, warped and large, beats soundly. George makes his shoulder blades ache where his old burn scars sit, makes his forehead thud dully where his old eye should be. He calls in every way an acolyte is meant to, in the ways the Matron used to whisper to him and his legion about in the early hours of morning.  _ “When you find your acolyte,”  _ she’d whispered,  _ “you’ll twinkle like stars, or melt like the falling rain. You’ll fly with the wind when you see them.”  _

“I didn’t think it would hurt like this,” he whispers, and Karl embraces him. The motion is nothing but platonic, and it warms Clay, softens him to little more than wilting. “I didn’t think it would burn.” 


	4. Colors we Can't Recognize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I did,” he sings, “I do. But not against you.”  
> “Then what?” George croaks. There are shadows on his neck, stealing his airflow in a way that is familiarly sickening. Dream’s own air remains free; he abuses it, forcing it from his lungs with each exaggerated syllable and movement as if he’s got all the air in the world to take, to give. He steps forward again.  
> “With me,” he whispers, almost too quiet to discern. There’s no noise here at all but them, and still George’s ears burn with the overwhelming crush of nothing, so silent it takes his hearing with it where it runs. 
> 
> Dream and bad arguing, sapnap and dream arguing, dream and george's check-in. Features Dream, Bad, Niki (mentioned), Eret (mentioned I think?) and his dad, Sapnap, Karl (mentioned), Fundy (briefly), Jebby mcschlatt (mentioned), and of course George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being almost 8k words and it isnt even half of what i meant to put in this chapter!! So hopefully I'll be able to crank 5 out soon as well. Enjoy! Thank you to everyone whos been commenting and leaving kudos on this im so proud of it and it means a lot! Yall r the best <3

Dream wakes up the next day with itchy skin, and no amount of scratching at his forearms can make it go away. He gives up after two minutes and goes downstairs to eat breakfast, then gives up on eating after only one bite. His gut churns.   
“I’m going to be late,” he murmurs, pushing his chair away from the small, round dining table in the farmhouse parlor. Bad looks up at him from where he sits across the table, frown wrinkling his ebony skin.

“You’re not hungry?” he asks hesitantly, and Dream turns his eyes away.

“No, not really,” he replies. It’s not exactly a lie; he feels sick at the thought of eating. _He’s_ sick, infected. “I’m going to go train today. I won’t be back until dinner,” he adds wearily, but Bad knows better than to ask where he’ll be for the latter half of the day. ‘I won’t be back’ means something important is occupying Dream’s time, something he can’t tell Bad about. The demon man knows better than to push him for answers.   
“Take Sapnap with you,” he says instead. Dream shoots him a warning glare- Sapnap can’t come with him today. He has business to attend to, Bad knows, but he doesn’t want Dream training alone, not when he’s sure there’s something wrong. “For the morning, Dream,” he says firmly. Dream sighs, glancing back up the stairs as if searching for an escape.   
“He’s not even awake,” Dream says quickly, and Bad smiles, his expression measured and tight.   
“Then you have time to eat while I wake him.”   
Dream tenses as if to argue, but he knows fighting with his adoptive father is useless when it comes to taking care of himself; he’ll never win. He falls back into his seat clumsily, slouching and stabbing his fork at his food. Bad grins smugly to himself as he stands to go get Sapnap, pausing only for a moment to make sure Dream really eats. He does, which is good enough for Bad- he doesn’t have to be happy about it, but he’s not leaving to train without eating breakfast first.   
  


“Sapnap,” Bad greets his other family member gently as he raps his knuckles against the door. When there’s no response, he swings it open slowly and moves across the room to draw the dark curtains open, tying them up. Sapnap grumbles, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut and pulling his blanket higher over his shoulders. Bad rolls his eyes, shaking him gently. “Come on, get up, Sap.”   
“Why? It’s Sunday,” Sapnap mumbles into his pillow, horn tips dangerously close to piercing it. Gently, Bad reaches down and tilts his head sideways by the tip of his horn, removing his pillow from danger. Where Bad’s horns were long, curved slightly away from his forehead and ending in short points, Sapnap’s butt forward from his skull and are lined with rough jags that catch easily on fabric. Sapnap mumbles his thanks unintelligibly into the pillow, and Bad smiles softly, stroking a hand over his hair once and patting his head in acknowledgment.   
“Dream is in a mood,” Bad tells him quietly, lowering his voice to a whisper. It’s not like Dream will hear them from downstairs, but the moment itself feels quiet, and Bad’s tone melts to the room as he sinks to sit on the edge of the bed. Sapnap he lifts his head wearily, eyes squinting open.   
“What happened?” Sapnap asks. “Is he still mad about that kid at the preliminary?” Bad pauses at this. He’s not actually sure why Dream is upset, but usually he can figure those things out quickly as a day or two wears on. Dream may think that he’s wrapped himself in mystery, but his tells are bold, easy to read when he removes his mask, and Bad has known him for years.   
“I don’t know, actually,” he sighs. “He went out for business yesterday and came back late at night, and he didn’t want to eat today when he came down. He wants to go training.” Sapnap frowns at this. He sits up straighter.   
“Late at night?” he mumbles, “but… he was with Karl yesterday, and Karl came back early in the evening.” Bad frowns at this, glancing back through the door to the stairwell. Where had Dream gone? The thought is worrying- that past his obligations to the Guard, his training, and his time with Karl, Dream is finding something _new_ to keep him up into the early hours of morning. Something new to gnaw at him.   
“He was out alone last night?” he mumbles the words softly to himself, worries his lip. He almost bies through the fork of his tongue as it darts between his front fangs, and he stops himself after that. He shoots another glance at Sapnap, who sighs tiredly, but gets up anyways. He finds his shoes, runs a hand through his hair before tying it away from his face with a band.   
“I’ll make him go to the institute gym,” Sapnap murmurs quietly. “We won’t fight today.” Bad nods gratefully, standing to hold the door open for Sapnap and following him through it and down the stairs. When they round the corner of the stairway into the kitchen, Dream is washing his plate and setting it in the basin of the sink. Bad eyes the trash bin next to the counter where the remainder of Dream’s breakfast sits abandoned, but says nothing, and Sapnap eats quickly before Dream can grow restless. As the two of them leave, Bad lets out a sigh he doesn’t realize he’s been holding in. No one ever told him looking after Dream would be easy, and he hadn’t expected it to be. Why he had even been entrusted with Dream was a mystery to him, but… 

He wouldn’t trade him for anything. It was a selfish feeling, to be glad that Dream was his, but he felt it nonetheless. He wonders how his life may have differed, if Dream had never crawled up to his door, bleeding down his back and sobbing. If Bad had never rushed him inside, cut off the remainder of his wings. _An angel raised with demons,_ he mused to himself- it was as backwards as things go, and yet the three of them fit well. Although Sapnap had been fearful and angry when Dream had first arrived, he had grown attached to him quickly enough. When they had finally had that fateful visit, a cloaked figure at the door with three linen-clad Guards in tow, Sapnap had cried, begged them to let Dream stay, and Bad had locked his two wards upstairs together while he was speaking to the King. 

_“We have been informed,” he says evenly, a cup of tea sitting abandoned by his folded arms on Bad’s pitiful parlor table, “that there is an angel in residence here.”_

_“Yes, your Grace,” Bad replies slowly. “Fallen.”_ _  
_ _“How did you come about him?” the King asks, eyes narrow beneath the line of his crown. His suspicion is apparent, and it makes Bad cautious._

_“He landed in my farm and needed medical help.” Bad replies evenly, keeping his meter steady by force of will. His voice, though naturally high-pitched, he keeps stiff and sure, because unsurity would mean his suspect to an ulterior motive. Unsurity would mean his death- lenience in the suspect of crime was never offered to demons here, and it was rare a fair trial was conducted for them, either._

_“So you kept him here?” the King muses, taunting. “What kind of motivations would a_ demon _have to keep an angel in the house?”_ _  
_ _“He stays on his own. I merely extend him my hospitality.” Bad lies through his teeth, afraid to tell the truth- that he cares for the thing, that he’s been caring for him for almost three years. That Dream is as much his as Sapnap, the two clinging to each other upstairs even now as Bad’s tongue lilts through his front fangs. The king stares pointedly at it, his lip curling, and Bad presses his jaw close together._ _  
_ _One of the Guards taps the king on his shoulder, and he tilts his head back slightly to listen as she dips at the waist to bring him into whispering range. The movements of the royal cohort are fluid, as they stand there, shifting in tandem, dangerous as poison. They look easy and sharp._ _  
_ _The Guard’s hair falls over her face as she moves, but Bad waits. She tucks it back behind her ear for just a moment, but it’s enough, and he reads her lips like open pages._ _  
_ _“A long time,” she whispers, “and he will be dangerous if taken- the Archangel has warned us of it too, but-”_ _  
_ _Her hair falls back, but it’s all that Bad needs. He recognizes, belatedly, that the Guard had been in his graduating class at institute. Niki’d been called for her talent in emotional magics; useful to have in a situation such as this, and the King knows it. He sighs, but does not frown- never frowns, not in front of the world even when the only eyes present are his allies and a measly farmer-demon. He turns back to Bad, leaning over the table to look him dead in the eye. The tiny table creaks beneath his arms as he puts his weight onto them, and his cloak shifts back on his shoulders as he moves. Behind him, hovering loosely over his shoulder with three fingers resting pointedly on his tricep, Niki stares at Bad, eyes wide with warning. Once, the two of them had been friends. She’s too young, Bad thinks to himself, to be here- to be involved in this scheme._ _  
_ _“We will be entrusting you with the continued care of the angel,” the King says flatly, and Niki’s lips part ever so slightly, stopping short, her eyes shifting to the floor and squeezing shut for just a moment before she regains her composure. “with conditions to you both.”_

Bad had been too relieved then to think clearly, accepting the offer readily. Dream’s conditions, to him, had seemed simple; report to the King, help with Guard business, don’t step out of line. It had seemed easy at the time, but now, with Dream old enough to fend for himself, he sees the way Dream’s contract weighs on him. Even with the old King passing, Eret taking his place, Dream’s royal involvement had grown more and more. Bad just hoped that he would be happier once he was allowed more time off of his duties for the manhunt season, but some part of him doubted if he would be let up at all. When Dream had first discovered manhunt, he had refused to do anything for the king unless he was allowed to play- first on his institute team, and later, in the league. It had been an issue only due to the fact that angels couldn’t project the way others did. Their souls were different, tied too heavily to their hearts. Where humans and other overworld class-one species could easily throw their souls out after training to connect with another object, and intelligent nether-borns could simply bind themselves to a golem using blood ties, angel’s souls were unyielding, their bodies too much a piece of soul themselves to be temporarily severed from their consciousness. From what little Bad knew from Dream’s midnight ramblings as a child, any angel who did would be hard-pressed to reform themselves wholly.   
_“My sister did it,” he had whispered, eyes wide and pointed at the crackling fire in the basin of the chimney. “And she lost the piece she took off. It never came back.”_

***

“I’m going to use the punching bag,” Dream throws his bag down as him and his brother step through the door of his institute’s gym. He barely glances at the other before he kneels, pulling a roll of gauze out of the bag to wrap his hands. Sapnap glares, snatching the white medical fabric away from him before he can start. 

“No, dude, just spot me,” Sapnap huffs. He lays back on the bench, waiting for Dream to follow him. The cold air of the gym is buffered every few moments by a gust of hot wind from the open door; the summer is still new, but the seasons have always been strong in SMP territory. It’s nice, Sapnap thinks, in the summer. He wonders if he would have liked the continuous dry heat that permeates the nether, if he’d stayed there long enough to remember it. Dream had always talked to him about visiting the nether, low tones in the dark of night when Bad had told them to sleep hours earlier. They huddled together under a fort of blankets and invisible threads and murmured about the fire that doesn’t go out, the wild blazes, the thick, twisted fungus growing all around from roots thicker than horses. Dream always wanted to hear about the nether. Once, when it was very late, Sapnap had asked him about heaven. _“Nobody wears shoes there,”_ Dream had said, and then he’d gone quiet, refusing to say more. He’d gone back to his own room, after that, and hadn’t come out the next day. 

Now, Sapnap’s shoes felt ugly and unnatural pressed between his skin and the cold floor of the gym. Dream moved behind him to spot, and Sapnap huffed as he pushed the bar up and off of the rack to lift it. He needed to be strong for the next manhunt round; he had always been short for a demon, and where Bad’s golem matched his monumental height, Sapnap’s was just above the average for a human. Bulk was where he shined, tough and unmovable.   
He pushes the bar up smoothly, once, twice. His arms start to strain when he hits fifty reps, and he knows he should finish the set, but he keeps pushing. He’s moving on autopilot, watching Dream’s face while he’s too focused on spotting him safely to notice. His eyes are sunken, tired. He looks sick. Even as he stands above the bench, ready to catch the bar if Sapnap falters, his expression is pained.   
Dream gives him another fifty-three reps before carefully latching his hands to the bar and prying it from Sapnap’s grip.   
“That’s more than two sets,” he warns quietly. “Don’t push yourself.” Sapnap frowns, watching as Dream stacks an extra twenty pounds on each side of the bar. He sits down, leaning backwards until he’s flat on the bench, and pulls his feet closer to its sides. He begins to push the bar up in carefully timed motions before Sapnap can even get behind him to spot.   
“I could say the same to you,” Sapnap bites bitterly, but Dream ignores him- or at least pretends to. His eyes narrow. His pace increases, and he breathes out shakily in a poor attempt to conceal either his anger, his fatigue, or both. 

Sapnap gives him thirty seconds. Dream’s arms are shaking slightly.   
“Dream,” he warns. He’s ignored, of course, and he waits another thirty seconds. Patience did not come naturally to Sapnap, but Bad had been sure to teach him to remain calm during the years after they emigrated to the Overworld. As a demon among non-nether folk- especially living in United SMP territory- it was dangerous to be rowdy. Dream is still ignoring him, though, and he’s fed up with it, no matter how upset his brother may be, or about what. 

“Put it down, Dream,” he snarls, his lip curling back over his top fangs. Dream pauses, staring at him for a moment before complying. He’s in no state to get into a fight with Sapnap now, and he knows it. If he wasn’t so obviously ill, maybe he could win, but...“What is _up_ with you, man? You look like shit,” Sapnap presses. Dream sighs, laughing shakily.   
“Don’t act like Karl didn’t run to tell you,” he spits. Sapnap flinches back from him, anger pinching his browline.   
“You know Karl doesn’t talk about you to me,” Sapnap says. The insinuation hurts, if he’s being honest; both wounding the pride he holds regarding Karl’s sincerity, and reminding him of how many secrets Dream and his lover share. He knows they can’t help it, and that they really couldn’t tell him about their ties with the throne even if they wanted to. It doesn’t stop the sting of waspish jealousy that worms into his heart at the thought of the two of them, hunched over books and working in the secrecy of night together. Crying together, comforting each other.   
It’s not like Karl and Dream keep _that_ secret. The two of them had been courts- sort of like platonic soulmates- since before Sapnap had even met Karl; they were each other’s saving lines, a two-man support system that turned the whole of the world invisible around them. Sapnap has no reason to be jealous of it; Karl was Dream’s court and he was Sapnap’s partner, and he loved both of them to the fullest extent possible. But the bubble that surrounds Dream and Karl’s lives keeps him in the dark, and how could anyone expect him not to wonder?   
“What, you’re saying he never tells you what I say?” Dream scoffs. “He’s your boyfriend, and you’re my _brother._ I just assumed he was cueing you in on me, or whatever.”   
“He’s not just _my_ boyfriend,” Sapnap spits. “He’s yours, too, and he respects your privacy.”   
“Well he tells me about you,” Dream replies haughtily. He’s pushing Sapnap’s buttons, trying to throw him off of how sickly Dream looks by upsetting him. It’s a low tactic, one that usually works. It’s working now, and Sapnap shoves Dream roughly on the shoulder, forcing him to sit up or be knocked off of the bench. He chooses the former.   
“You don’t get to disrespect him like that,” Sapnap hisses. “He doesn’t, you’re fucking sick. Just because you two are- are written in the fucking stars, or whatever bullshit lie he feeds you when you’re sad, doesn’t mean you get to say that. He keeps my trust the same as yours.” Dream pauses at that, sits up on the bench and stares off for a moment.   
“I never got the whole court thing,” Dream hums softly, seemingly out of nowhere. It’s a real admission, though; maybe Dream is willing to piss his adoptive brother off to avoid being confronted, but he won’t go too far regarding Karl. The last thing he wants is for Sapnap to repeat something that will hurt his court’s feelings, make his life more difficult than it already is. “Like, you have lovers. They do all the things a court does, too. Why even have courting at all?”   
The words say more than Dream probably wants them to. He’s scared of what Sapnap could influence Karl to think of him, much more than he lets on. He doesn’t get why Karl needs him in his life, when he has Sapnap, but one thing Dream does know is that he very much needs Karl in his. Sapnap knows it too; Dream is a wreck.   
“You can’t confide in just one person, Dream,” Sapnap replies surely. “A lover is a wonderful thing. They cherish you like gold and make you feel at home, and they love you. But if you give all of yourself to a lover, the lines blur. You make yourselves miserable.” Dream’s gaze shifts away as Sapnap talks. He rubs tiredly at his eyes, then catches himself, hoping Sapnap won’t notice. “A court is about balance. There’s no expectation, no commitment to passion or whatever expectation romantic relationships have. It’s just… trust. Everyone needs trust.” 

“Trust is dangerous,” Dream hisses bitterly. “Trust kills.” 

Sapnap waits. The two of them sit silently in the empty gym, thinking. They think about angels and demons, courtships, karl. They think about the country and it’s secrets, and it’s dangers.   
“What really happened, then?” Sapnap finally asks. Dream doesn’t answer. For a moment, Sapnap thinks he’s going to keep ignoring the question, but Dream finally sighs, his whole torso shaking with the motion, and responds.   
“I found my acolyte,” he whispers, “and it hurts, Sapnap. I know Karl didn’t tell you, I just-” he cuts off quickly, biting back a sob and laughing bitterly to follow it. “What am I supposed to do?”   
“Oh, Clay.” Sapnap’s eyes widen in horrified shock, and he drops to sit on his knees beside the weight bench, taking Dream’s wrists in one hand and resting the other against his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning forward to knock his horns lightly against the side of Dream’s face, careful to angle his face upwards to point to jagged tips away from Dream as he does.   
“I can’t tell him. There’s so much going on, Pandas,” Dream pushes his forehead back against the pressure of Sapnap’s horns, twisting his thin wrists around in his brother’s hand to curl his fingers around his palm. He shivers, his free hand wiping at the tears on his cheeks.   
“You’re a wreck,” Sapnap huffs, and Dream laughs lightly, the crying audible in his voice. “Let’s go home, Dream. You can rest, think. I’ll call for Karl,” Sapnap pleads him, but Dream just sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he slumps against Sapnap in defeat.   
“I can’t,” he whispers. “I have to see him again- on contract, not because of how sick he’s making me. And Karl has a meeting too.” 

Sapnap protests; he argues for nearly five minutes. Eventually, though, Dream pries him away and stands, and he leaves Sapnap alone in the gym as he moves through the back door of the building and down the path to the campus gate.

“Be safe,” Sapnap mumbles, long after Dream has gone. Nobody is there to hear him. 

***

Dream doesn’t know where else to go, once he leaves Sapnap alone at the institute. He’s got hours before he’s supposed to check up on George, and Karl is busy with the Guard until the same time, when he’s planning to go and talk to Jebediah. He finds himself wandering the streets aimlessly, strolling through the market district and browsing the stalls. He gets hungry, regrets throwing away his breakfast. He didn’t bring any money to buy lunch. 

He’s walking slowly through one of the more populated streets, stomach aching, his whole body feeling heavy and gross, when he hears it- a light laugh. It carries over the noise of the crowd on the breeze, reaching Dream’s ears to pique his interest. For a moment, he wonders who it might have been to catch his attention in such a way, but he doesn’t wonder for long. His gut stops aching with hunger for a moment, the feeling replaced with a soft warmth and a sharp tug.   
“Oh,” he murmurs softly, and just as he does, someone bumps into his back with a soft thud.   
“Oh, god, sorry!” the person behind him giggles, and Dream spins around although he already knows who’s standing there. The smile slips quickly from George’s face as he looks up at Dream, who suddenly feels light and airey.   
“George,” he greets, allowing himself to smile softly. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you before tonight.” George doesn’t reply right away, frowning and looking down to his shoes. Without thinking, Dream reaches out, tilting George’s face up to meet his gaze. The shorter boy’s eyes widen, and Dream drops his hand away quickly as if he’s been scalded. He might as well be; his skin burns white hot and prickly where the two of them had come into contact. The Archangel had been so very wrong about acolytes, Dream noted bitterly. Maybe hers had been a gentle call of love, but this? Everything about George set him on edge, pained him. He wanted more.   
“I- yeah, I’m just out with Fundy,” George stammers, hand reaching to rub distractedly at his chin where Dream’s finger had tugged his head upwards. It’s only then that Dream notices him, George’s fox-hybrid roommate, clinging to his acolyte’s arm. He scowls at the sight, but quickly remembers to reel himself in as Fundy’s ears flatten against his head and he makes himself smaller behind George. Dream checks himself, blinking before smiling apologetically and extending a hand.   
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he sighs. “I’m Clay.” Fundy slowly, carefully releases his hold on George’s arm with his right hand, extending it to shake Dream’s own hand gently. Dream would be lying if he wasn’t pleased to see Fundy remove himself from George’s arm, but he hid it well.   
“Fundy,” the foxboy mumbles back, “but you knew that.” Dream shrugs awkwardly, and George coughs into his hand.   
“Well, uh… nice seeing you? I guess?” He grumbles, and raises his hand in a wave. As he begins to move around Dream to leave, though, Fundy once again clinging to his arm, Dream’s gut wrenches, tugs, burns, and he panics.   
“Wait! Uh…” He trails off as George turns around to look at him, forcing himself not to be distracted by the way Fundy leans his head into the crook of George’s neck and leans against him where they stand. “If you’re here, why don’t we just check in now? I won’t have to come by later.” He winces at his own words- how awkward can he be? But after a moment of consideration, he’s surprised that George agrees.   
“Fine, that sounds alright. We can get it over with.” He sighs, and to Dream’s utter delight, he lifts his arm away from Fundy with a small tug, who lets go of it reluctantly. 

“George?” Fundy asks softly, and Dream’s acolyte turns to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his hair that makes Dream furious.   
“I’ll be home for dinner, alright? We’ve got to discuss some things,” George murmurs into Fundy’s hair, and Dream averts his gaze if only to save himself from losing his temper. Why does he even care about George so much? Their only interactions so far have been dangerous, malicious. Battle and trickery, political schemes. He should hate George, see him as a nuisance or danger, especially since George had hurt him with his power in a way neither of them understood. But after reaching into George’s soul to cleanse him yesterday, Dream had been plagued by possessive thoughts and desires that he knew he could not rid himself of. It had been stupid, really, to eat George’s fear, especailly when he barely knew him. It was too soon, far too soon into knowing him to have discovered something as big as the fact that George was his acolyte, destined to be his. Dream had barely even thought about the fact that he _could_ have an acolyte, not since he had been exiled from heaven. He had assumed that privilege- was it a privilege?- would have been taken away. He hadn’t thought to be careful when touching other’s souls, because without his rank, he had believed himself to be free of all the constraints of heaven.   
He had been wrong, obviously. But there was nothing he could do now but sit, drained and upset, waiting for Fundy to leave. He’s so wrapped up in _not_ noticing Fundy that he almost doesn’t notice when he’s actually gone. George snaps his fingers in front of Dream’s face, startling him, and Dream looks down at him in surprise.   
“What’s wrong?” It’s the last thing Dream expects him to ask. He just shakes his head, wrapping George’s wrist in his grasp and tugging him to follow Dream away from the market district. He leads him much farther than he probably needs to, and when he finally stops in a secluded corner of a park near the outskirts of the district, he doesn’t let go of his wrist. It’s only when George reaches with his other hand to pry Dream’s fingers loose that he notices he’s still holding it, and with a sheepish cough, he backs a few steps away from the shorter boy.   
“Good? We’re pretty far out,” George asks, and Dream nods once, motioning George to sit on a nearby bench with him after a beat of silence just long enough to be awkward. They sit down, too close for George’s liking and not close enough for Dream’s. He tells himself he doesn’t care, or that he feels nothing at all, and he’s surprised by how effective the method is at distracting him from how sick he is. He lets his eyes flutter shut so he can lose his body, speak without being next to George though he knows he will be anyway.   
“Yes, fine,” he murmurs. He realizes that he has nothing to ask George far too late, but he has to do this check-in thing either way, and he probably should have thought of something to discuss during it. He hesitates for a moment, and George, too impatient to sit still, speaks again.   
“What do I tell you?” he asks quietly. Dream refuses to open his eyes, keeps quiet, and after a moment, he hears the rustle of George’s tunic and the creak of the bench as George scoots slightly closer to face him.   
“Tell me about your day,” Dream finally sighs, air brushing between his lips as cold as death. He wants to hear the answer; he’s afraid to hear the answer. The world is dark around him with his eyelids closed tightly, and he leans his back against the cold metal of the bench behind him just to have a small feeling of stability. He tips his head back to rest against the top of the bench’s backing, and although he’s blind to his acolyte’s form next to him, he _feels_ how George’s eyes shift over to him, studying Dream like a portrait in a museum. 

***

“I got up late, practiced a little for the hunt. It’s weird practicing with my golem so far from me, but I’ve gotten used to it. I used to just use the black-room at my institute, and my golem was right outside. And then me and Fundy went out.” George hums is recounting softly, softer than he needs to. He feels maybe he should be angry at Clay just for existing, but he seems serene now, all his movements tipped in a liquidity that seems somehow both ethereal and tiring. He feels calm, too, watching Clay with his eyes closed. He feels somehow less threatening that way, as if he’s offering George some sort of power over him. As George pauses, Clay swallows, his throat bobbing in a way that’s altogether too captivating. With his head leaning backwards, nose turned up to the sky, the skin stretches thinly over his Adam's apple in a way that makes him look delicate. George looks quickly away; it feels wrong to consider Clay attractive, especially after the way they had met yesterday, the circumstances of their meeting now. George can’t help but think, though, that Clay’s skin looks tearable as paper when the muscle shifts beneath it. 

“We were going to get lunch, but then I ran into you,” George sighs. “He’s probably mad at me for ditching, but honestly, I wasn’t in a good mood to do courtship things, so… thank you? I guess, for getting me out of there,” George laughs softly, self-conscious of his admission. He’s always talked a bit more than what seemed appropriate, said a bit too much that was personal in odd situations. Clay doesn’t seem to mind it, sitting almost perfectly still on the bench next to him. George doesn’t miss the way his hands, which have been fiddling with the hems of his sleeves, still quickly at the kind words George has directed at him.   
“Oh, uhm. It’s fine. Not like I knew,” Clay mumbles. There’s an awkward moment of silence where neither of them speaks, and after a moment, Clay’s eyes shut tighter, eyelids pressed firmly closed where before they lay easily. “I needed to get out of there too.” The words still George, who’s been kicking his feet, glancing back and forth across the park since they sat.   
“What do you mean?” George asks. “Get out of where?” Clay doesn’t answer him for a long time, and the two sit in a silence that should really be more uncomfortable than it is. After what feels like hours, but was probably only five minutes, Clay’s eyes finally slip open. George meets his gaze head on without meaning to, not expecting him to look, and blinks in surprise when a vibrant color he doesn’t recognize fills his vision. As he blinks, the color shifts- it goes golden, a bright and shimmery golden that he associates with real metal jewelry, and George loses himself staring as flecks of that other bright color swim through Clay’s irises. Clay breathes in shakily, quickly ripping his gaze away. He hunches over as he does, as if someone’s kicked him in the gut. George feels something reminiscent of a quick headache, as if his eyes have been pushed on, but the sensation fades quickly. By the time it’s gone, Clay is sitting up straight again.   
“I just… I had a rough morning,” he admits, and George’s brow furrows in concern when he notices how much Clay is shivering. It’s warm outside.   
“Tell me about it,” George says. “I told you about mine.” He isn’t sure why he’s bothering, but Clay looks pitiful and sick, something George hadn’t noticed until now. There are bags beneath his eyes that definitely weren’t there yesterday, and despite the nagging thought that maybe Clay deserves it, that he’s ruining George’s life, somehow, George worries for him. He feels the need to fix it, to care for Clay although he’s never met him before in his life until this week.   
“I…” Clay trails off almost too gently, and George knows that tone well enough to know that he’s being protected, babied. He doesn’t need to be, but people do it anyways, automatically assuming that whatever they have to tell him will break him down into tears. Well, for Clay, the assumption may be more reasonable; God knows George had cried enough in front of him already. “I can’t. Tell you, I mean,” Clay finally mumbles, refusing to meet George’s eyes again. It’s exactly what he had expected, but somehow it still hurts.   
“Right. I guess this is a one-way street kind of deal, I shouldn’t have asked,” George says hurriedly.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I want to tell you what I’m thinking about, trust me,” Clay laughs bitterly. “I want to tell you my thoughts more than you could ever probably realize. But I can’t, because-”  
“Because I can’t handle it?” George snaps. Clay looks down at him in surprise. He smiles as if he’s heard a joke that no one else understood.   
“No. I know you could,” Clay tells him. “But I couldn’t.” It’s the exact last thing George expects, and the words make the back of his neck itch. What does that mean, Clay couldn’t handle telling him his own thoughts? It’s not like George knowing about what’s bothering the tall man would change what’s going on. Maybe George could even help, if he knew what to do. But then again, why should George expect so much? When he looked at Clay, he felt as if he could share anything, although he knew that he really couldn’t. He was off-put by the thought that perhaps Clay was discomforted by him, despite how natural he felt sitting with the other. Usually, he mused, it would have been the other way around- easygoing people milling about in a group, laughing amicably, while George shoved himself to the back and counted the moments until he was alone. Being with Clay was different, though; sitting with him was just as comfortingly lonely as sleep. 

“I want to help you,” George whispers, “but I don’t know how. Just tell me how to help you.”   
It’s the only solace he can offer himself, then, if Clay will refuse to tell him what’s making him look so fragile, so unkempt. Clay blinks in surprise, and then a knowing smile graces his lips, and he lets his eyes close again.   
“I should have known that you would ask me something like that,” he whispers back, just as quiet or quieter than George.   
“Why would you know?” George shoots back, closing his own eyes and leaning his head back to mirror Clay. The dark of blindness hugs him tightly; he’s as blind as Clay, the two of them alone in shadow.   
“I can’t… I don’t know. I wouldn’t have,” Clay lies. For a while, they stay that way, eyes shut to the world. They stay in the dark for far too long, but neither of them is willing- or ready- to break the silence. They let it grab hold of their limbs, twisting fingers that chain them down and glue their lips shut tight. It’s not unpleasant, or unwelcome, and both men are comforted by the knowledge that neither of them expects the other to break free from the dark. 

George lets himself drift there, the silky hands of shadow guiding him through a space that feels both like everything and nothing at once. He feels like his eyes are closed, but suddenly, there in the pitch blackness, he sees other things. There’s a crude wooden sword nudging into his palm, a leather chestplate suddenly sagging over his chest. His vision is full of small flashes of that color he doesn’t know, and it tugs him faster, until he sees Dream in front of him, his own armor iron and his crystal axe weighing heavily at his arm where it rests beside him. His cloak swirls, dark and deep. _Green,_ George muses to himself as he looks at the color. _It’s green_ . The vibrant color blows back as a gust of wind that isn’t there tugs back Dream’s cloak- George knows it’s his color from last season, when he’d been all anybody could speak of. It’s the same color- if a little more muted on the cloak- that George had seen in Clay’s eye.   
“What are you doing here?” George mumbles. His gut coils in fear; Dream had almost taken him out once, and now, he was without a golem. If he had to fight without that layer of assurance- if he had to fight _Dream-_ he would die.   
“I’m here to see you,” Dream’s grin is apparent in his voice, hefty with air that threatens to wheeze from his lungs. He has all the tone of a blacksmith’s bellows, pushing out gusts of everything he has with each sentence, each laugh. “I _told_ you I wanted to see you again.”   
“You said you wanted to fight,” George says. Dream laughs for real, but his face is hidden, and the noise is disconnected, disembodied. The hands of darkness reach for him, but they can’t break past his cloak. They huddle around George as if they’re a part of him, though, and he feels suddenly slower with the force of them. Dream steps forward.   
“I did,” he sings, “I do. But not against you.”   
“Then what?” George croaks. There are shadows on his neck, stealing his airflow in a way that is familiarly sickening. Dream’s own air remains free; he abuses it, forcing it from his lungs with each exaggerated syllable and movement as if he’s got all the air in the world to take, to give. He steps forward again.   
“With me,” he whispers, almost too quiet to discern. There’s no noise here at all but them, and still George’s ears burn with the overwhelming crush of nothing, so silent it takes his hearing with it where it runs.   
“No,” George gasps. He’s running out of breath, and he panics at the thought of standing next to Dream, fighting at his side still knowing what he’s done, what he may have taken. “I won’t, I can’t. I-”   
“I know what you did, and I don’t care.” Dream cuts him off angrily, and he’s rushing forward, axe raised. George thinks he might die, squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can, but they won’t close. He watches the blade meet his neck and slide off, and there’s stinging pain, but not from being cut. His skin blisters as the shadows, sliced and defeated, whip away from his skin. Dream is behind him now, but his cloak twists in the nonexistent wind so that it surrounds them both. The shadows, at his mercy, retreat.   
“You can’t hurt me, not really. That’s not what you’re for.” George refuses to reply. Dream sighs in annoyance, his hot breath running down the inside of his mask and hitting George’s back. He stills, both of them do, and Dream’s hand, wrapped in white bandages that are stark against the darkness enveloping them, brush at George’s fingers to pry his sword away from him. It’s happened before. It might happen again.   
“With me,” the hunter repeats firmly. “Or not at all. You won’t best me.”   
  
The dark fades away so fast that George feels dizzy, and he lurches forward off of the bench- since when was he on a bench?- breathing in a gulp of hot summer air that makes him feel gross. Clay leans over him, eyes wide and once again void of green. They shimmer anyways, in the dull yellow George knows from his own colorblind vision, but he can’t think about them now, not as he heaves with the effort of not throwing up. Quickly, so fast that he doesn’t even recognize the motion, Clay brushes the back of his hand over George’s neck and pulls, and once again, dark brackish sludge comes away with them, straight through George’s skin to trail away on Clay’s fingernails. He can breathe again, although it takes him a few tries, and he watches with a shaky eye as Clay slips the slime into a small jar, tucking it into his bag afterwards. Last time, he’d eaten it, dropping it down his throat like it was a particularly unpleasant syrup. The sky is midnight blue above them, and George stands up hurriedly, backing a few steps away from Clay.   
“What did you do?” he asks. It’s the second time he has, and Clay turns his gaze to the stars.   
“You fell asleep, I didn’t want to wake you,” he says. “Then I fell asleep too. You woke me up hyperventilating.”   
“ _What did you do?_ ” George repeats harshly. Clay winces. “Clay. I need to know.”   
“I took the fear from your soul. I’ll have to get rid of it later.”   
“Is it- from my what? Didn’t you _eat_ some of that shit yesterday?” Clay looks down to meet his eyes, shifting awkwardly.

“I mean, yeah, I didn’t have anything to put it in, and I couldn’t let it go. That’s not safe, someone could have touched it.”  
“You ate it!” George cries. “How is that any safer?!”   
“I’m built for it, trust me. It won’t do anything to me.” The following silence is repetitive, and it would be comforting if there was ever anything _other_ than silence following a conversation between the two. Just once, it would be nice to talk about something that wasn’t fear or power or fighting. For the second time in the evening, George’s gut tells him to bridge the gap. 

  
  


***

  
“I was dreaming about the hunt,” George whispers, and slumps back onto the bench next to Dream. He winces guiltily, but George misses it. It had been a terrible idea, but once George had fallen asleep on his shoulder, he hadn’t been able to help slipping into his mind. It had been pitch black, far too dark inside. It tasted like grit and ash, like fear. There was _so_ much fear. It was a familiar taste, and while Dream hadn’t been able to place it’s origin the day before when he’d taken it from George, he could now. _Burnt alcohol. Nicotine smoke. Jebediah._

He had summoned his mask, his cloak of dark emerald, his axe, and the sick power fled from him readily. He had wanted to get George out, wake him, but…

_“What are you doing here?”_

It was a temptation, to stop, to risk George’s health for an upper hand. But the mask did not only obscure Clay’s face from view, but also his own good-sense from his grasp. With the mask, he was not Clay; he was Dream, angry and corrupt with the devastation of exile. Manhunt had always been his vent, and when he was a hunter, he could not be an angel born under God. When he was a hunter, he was his _own_ god.   
Now, he feels the sting of regret prodding at his back, poking through his skin. He should have gotten him out faster, taken him home. George shakes slightly where he sits on the bench next to Dream, and the hot air of the summer night must not make recovering any easier after he had hyperventilated.   
“What about the hunt?” Dream asks, finally, unsure how to field this conversation when he knows too much. George’s eyes squeeze shut, but they open again quickly, and Dream knows George is unwilling to let himself slip back there, to the dark.   
“About Dream. It felt so real,” he breathes. “He really does want me to join their team, doesn’t he? Like you said?”   
“He… yes. He requested you specifically.” Dream huffs out. Lying had never been hard for him, but this feels like more than just a lie. This is a mask as heavy as the one he wears to battle. He fears what George might say next, feels his chest crush in on itself as he speaks.   
“Tell him to come see me,” George mumbles. “Tell him… that if he wants to ask me again, he has to come in the waking world.”   
Dream nods, fighting a tremor of his own as he stands. He reaches a hand back to help George up off the bench. The shorter boy stares down at it, makes no move to grab hold of it. Dream falters, flinches his hand back when he finally realizes that George won’t accept his help. Just as he’s pulling his fingers back, though, they catch on George’s, tugging firmly as he pulls himself up and stands solemnly in front of the hunter. He looks at his feet, scuffs them on the ground. 

“Come on,” Dream whispers softly. George looks up to meet his eyes, and his gut wrenches at the tug of his acolyte’s presence. George looks at him in awe, and Dream wonders what he might see looking back into his eyes. Can he see heaven there? Can his acolyte see the pooling gold and green of his soul, even when he’s been stripped of his glamour and glow? Maybe he can. Acolytes see so much more than the rest- they see _you._

“Come where?” George breathes lightly, still not letting go of Dream’s hand where he’d tugged himself off of the bench.   
“Home,” Dream replies. He reaches forward, brushing his fingertips over George’s eyelids to close them. The action is odd, comes from nowhere, but it feels natural to him, and George relaxes, no longer quite as distracted as when he had stared into Dream’s eyes. “Let me take you home.” 


	5. I'm Your Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He doesn’t belong to you,” Karl sings, smiling wide. “And no claim you make will change it.”   
> “And why not? If I have to, I’ll fucking take him."  
> “Oh, Jebediah. I don’t think you need to worry about the Guard trying to take him from you,” Karl’s grin turns wicked. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. None of us can touch that boy, not with your hold on his soul, not with his power, not with the forces of every Guard in the state. He’s spoken for.” 
> 
> **  
> Karl confronts Schlatt who then gives a little inner monologue about his and george's past for your plot-comprehending convenience. Then George and Dream act gay for a little bit. 
> 
> Mentions of the day: Karl, Tubbo, Schlatt, Fundy (mentioned heavily), Wilbur (mentioned), that kid george killed (mentioned), Eret (mentioned as "the king"), Anonymous angel (mentioned), Dream (as Clay from George's POV) and of course Gogmiester himself.   
> yall lmk if you like these mention lists btw! Ive been doing them bc of the sheer volume of characters i need to keep track of and theyre mostly for me so i can check them when im writing new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter today (sorry) although I don't rlly think it will hurt since I'm rolling an average of 5.26k per chapter so far and I'm not even that deep into the plotline. This fic is gonna end up being my L'manberg (HOPEFULLY FINISHED! symphony) because holy shit I have so much to cover and it takes me 2k words to have Dream and Gogster say like 4 words to each other. I apologize for whats probably going to be an actual 50k words of just slowburn im so so sorry guys i promise the plotline is going to be BUSSIN so please stick with me. 
> 
> Pls drop kudos or comments if you enjoy! I don't mind lurking but it's super motivating for me when ppl comment :-)! I promise I reply to them all as well! Love all of you who are reading I appreciate it <3333
> 
> Not in the writing but bonus headcanon for this fic since we're slapping a long chapter note in anyways: George's eyes hurt in the bright sunlight because he spends so much time projecting into his golem, (which wears the shaded color correcting goggles.) He wants a pair to wear casually but they're expensive magic so he just uses them for manhunt (so he can tell his tools apart)

The lights are on behind the shudders of the lone window, but almost none squeaks through to shine on the cobbled ground of the courtyard. What little light does escape falls in slits of gold on the ground which bend and curl over Karl’s skin where he obstructs their path. He only stays there for a moment, though, and then he’s obscured once more in shadow. The darkness cloaks him well; his magic cloaks him better.    
He lets the spell fall for only a moment, reaching his hand forward to rap insistently on the dark-oak door of the apartment. There’s no call, and Karl needs offer no response. The door reads his presence and swings open just as he re-stakes his mental barrier.    
He trods through the entryway, waiting patiently in the front alcove to be invited farther in. He sees Tubbo scamper by through the hallway ahead, rounding up the stairs and glancing back at him warily. A moment later, he peeks back around the corner at the top, turns back to mumble something. There’s a huffed reply before Jebediah begins the trek down the stairs, smiling coyly at Karl.    
“My favorite Guard,” Schlatt coos, mockery dripping from his tongue. Karl’s eyes narrow and his lips purse.    
“Jebediah,” he greets. He doesn’t wait for a formal invitation, brushing past the fallen angel into the small dining area. He sits down at the mahogany table there, the wood polished and carved in intricate twisting designs of vines and grape bunches. It sticks out in the relatively dingy apartment. “When did you get this?” Karl muses, running a hand over the smooth tabletop. He raises an eyebrow, biting back a cruel smile. Schlatt glowers where he stands in the door.    
“What’s it to you?” He hisses. 

“Just wondering where you got the money. Is it hand-carved?” Karl edges one of his fingernails lightly over a carved bushel of grapes, then hovers before scraping the wood a little harder. He leaves a scuff mark, and Schlatt’s eye twitches.    
“They pay me good to do those goddamn announcements,” he spits. It’s a blatant lie, Karl knows it. They probably pay Schlatt half a penny an hour or less to bark his shitty commentary over the league, and the only reason he even does it is for the connections. Where better to offer the services of your half-baked cartel than to a gaggle of drunken nobles and lords out at a sporting event?    
“Sure,” Karl hums. He waves his hand at the other side of the table, and Schlatt, god rest his soul- or, well, he won’t, actually- shuffles over to take a seat. In a last-ditch effort to appear like he’s in control, he spreads his legs out to bump against Karl’s. The Guard pulls his own legs back, but he won’t be intimidated easily; he crosses one of his long legs over the other, folding his hands atop the table in a posture that’s been drilled into him by his time with the Guard. 

_ “Power is not just about being gifted,”  _ the fallen angel who had given him his own power- dead, now, since she had been burned- had hissed furiously to him in the hollow pews of the cathedral one tuesday morning.  _ “You have your Power, but you need more than that. You need to be on top.”  _

It had been good advice, if driven by the bitter sting of losing, and he’d learned to follow it quickly when he had taken up residence with the Guard. Once he had been dopey, joking around and giggling with his institute friends. It hadn’t taken long for his naivety to fade, not once he’d been gifted. His power was too valuable to be wasted, and the more he was made to use it, the harder it became to be his old self. 

Now, he was the one who was sent to deal with Jebediah and his little shenanigans. The ram-horned angel smelled of smoke and booze, stumbled over himself and his stupid jokes and thought himself to be a figure of danger, of power. Karl knew better than to fall for it. Only now, the threats weren’t just threats, were they? Schlatt, for what little he was worth, had always been able to make just the right empty promise to be exempt from royal allegiance as a fallen angel. He had fought tooth and nail, threatening to anger the archangel, to expose the Guard to the public, to drink himself to death in market square with his burnt wings exposed to all.    
He had never once made a threat to gift power  _ outside  _ of the organization of the Guard. No one would have expected it, which was probably why he had done it. Creating a new player, a second pawn to dangle under Karl’s nose.    
It wasn’t going to fly. 

“Tell me about your tenants,” Karl hummed easily. “The Guard is worried you may be running another one of your little scams, so I’ve been sent to check up on the place.”    
Schlatt stares at him, scowling, but after a moment a grin splits across his face. He mirrors Karl’s posture. He tilts his heavy-horned head to the right.    
“I believe you’re acquainted with some of them,” he sings, “so you should know that my tenants are legitamate.” Karl curses in his mind. He’d thought that Jebediah had seen him and Clay coming back through with George the night before, but he had been hoping that he would be able to dance around the issue before confronting Schlatt directly.    
“Yes,” he answers carefully, “I’ve met them. They had some interesting things to say about you.” Schlatt eyes him carefully, he eyes back. Neither is sure where this conversation will go.    
“About me?” Schlatt smiles thinly. “George and I are pals, I’m sure it was all good things.” Karl laughs curtly, leaning back in his chair. He leans forward again, though, bringing his face closer to Schlatt and staring him dead in the eyes. His pupils dark ram-eyed slivers in solid yellow eyes void of any iris at all, dart down to Karl’s hands for just a moment. Karl eases at that. Although Jebediah may have been an angel once, he can do no harm to Karl now. His power is useless in his own hands- which is why fallen angels align themselves with the Guard. When you have no power you can use yourself, it makes sense to give it to somebody who can protect you. When the other option is being executed, the deal starts looking even better.    
Jebediah had never really liked those options. He had chosen to hide, instead- at least at first- but no one could hide from the Guard, not with their resources and abilities. It was too late when they’d found him, though; he had kept himself well hidden for three years, and when they finally managed to locate him, there’d been… complications. There’d been Tubbo. From then on, Tubbo was the chip he played to keep the King off of his back. A child who was half-angel was volatile and taking him from Schlatt could have ended badly, not only for the kid. It was dangerous to leave Tubbo by himself, dangerous to take him from his dad. 

Karl knew that Tubbo was less fragile than that, if he was being honest. The kid was as strong as they come, and he was calm, not at all how the Guard made him out to be. If a punch was dealt, he wouldn’t be dangerous. He could tell the others as much, Advise the King to take him away and finally get rid of Jebediah, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t do that, not to a kid. Not to anybody, unless it was really that important to the greater good. 

“George is your pal?” Karl muses. Schlatt eyes him, but neither of them move. “He didn’t seem to be familiar with you, honestly. I’d have thought you two never talk.” 

“We chat,” Schlatt replies flatly. “Why do you care?”   
“Because George has something that doesn’t belong to him,” Karl hisses through his teeth, feeling a cold fury growing in his gut. He fought it down; he wouldn’t fight on this. He needed to be sure his theory was correct, and then make it clear that Schlatt had no power over his pawn or the Guard. And then  _ get out.  _

Schlatt remains silent. He knows trying to rebut before Karl makes his point is hopeless, it’s more worthwhile to field out the situation before he comes up with a cover story. Both of them wait a moment for the other to speak, but he knows Karl will cave. He waits, but there’s nothing. Karl stares at him, eye cold and enraged, and he cracks.    
“I don’t know what you m-”   
“You know exactly what the fuck I mean.” Karl stands abruptly, his chair knocking back and his palms slamming down to shake the table. Schlatt regrets speaking, wonders if he should argue, but he can’t even open his mouth before Karl is going again. “You gave it to him. You didn’t even tell him, how could you do that to somebody? He’s going to kill someone, or himself!” Karl seethes, and Schlatt waits silently, a smile creeping up his lips at Karl’s outburst.  _ There it is,  _ he thinks.    
“I did,” he says, saying only that and nothing else. Karl stares at him, indignance creeping up his arms to shake them. He takes a deep breath.    
“Let’s make something clear, Jebediah, because you just aren’t getting it.  _ This?”  _ he gestures at Schlatt’s expensive table, his apartment. “This is a luxury. We’ve humored you. I don’t want to take you from the kid, and I won’t tell them to, but  _ something _ will have to happen if you keep going like this. George was too far.”   
“George,” Schlatt says slowly “is mine. You have no say.” 

“ _ Yours?”  _ Karl laughs, and the sound is so surprisingly pure that it’s startling. Schlatt stares at him in confusion. “You think he’s yours because you gifted him a power?”    
“Well, I- yeah?” Schlatt’s brow furrows and he crosses his arms. “Why wouldn’t he be? I gave him his home, his  _ life.  _ Without me, that kid wouldn’t even be able to do real magic!” 

“He doesn’t belong to you,” Karl sings, smiling wide. “And no claim you make will change it.” 

“And why not? If I have to, I’ll fucking take him,” Jebediah snarls. He’s angry, losing his temper. He stands as well, his own hands gripping the edge of the table to mirror Karl. “You and your dumb little Guard won’t be able to take him from me. He’s got  _ my  _ power, and everything that comes with it. If you try anything, he’ll lose control. He’s dangerous without me.”    
“Oh, Jebediah. I don’t think you need to worry about the Guard trying to take him from you,” Karl’s grin turns wicked. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. None of us can touch that boy, not with your hold on his soul, not with his power, not with the forces of every Guard in the state. He’s spoken for.” 

Schlatt’s brow twitches. He isn’t getting it, and he needs to, he knows it. He feels a familiar rush of anger that he gets whenever people are keeping him in the dark, the fury of being tricked. 

“By  _ who? _ Kid’s not that special,” Schlatt growls. Karl just smiles lightly, waves him off. 

“I’ll tell you this. We’ve spoken to him, we’ve come to an agreement. He won’t be your problem now, and even if you try to trigger his power with whatever sick disease you’ve left in his soul, you’ll still get nothing. Your terror is strong, but he’s got another angel who’s stronger.”

“No,” Schlatt breathes, “you’re lying.” He stands to block Karl from leaving where the Guard is turning towards the door, and Karl raises an eyebrow, looking up at him. “Say you’re lying.” 

“Funny thing,” Karl hums. “Yesterday when we left George’s, Clay was feeling sick. I didn’t think Angels could get colds, I wonder what was wrong.”    
He brushes past Schlatt to the door, leaving the fallen angel standing dumbfounded in the entryway.  _ He has an angel- Clay.  _ This would ruin everything he had worked for, but what could he possibly do to stop it? He needed a stronger hold on George, to claim his soul before Clay could consecrate it. He needed George to be  _ scared,  _ that was what his plan hinged on. When George, with all his volatile, untrained power was scared? He was dangerous. Dangerous was useful. With an Acolyte bound to him, he would be much too stable to be manipulated into panic. 

He needed to do something  _ now  _ to get Clay out of the picture, or his last shot at full freedom would be ripped from him. George was his ticking time-bomb, and he’d hovered over the hunter since he was just a kid to  _ make  _ him that way. He’d kicked one of his classmates into freaking him out, triggering his power. Fundy hadn’t even been his plan or his doing, but once George had taken his magic, he’d scooped the two of them into his palm; he’d made fast friends with Fundy’s father, and he’d gotten Wilbur involved in the rum ring. It was big money- banned at the time- but when the ban was lifted and the prices dropped, it had been easy to shift him into the illegal potion trade. When it had gotten too real, when Wilbur’s trailer had been raided- he’d been separated from Fundy, and there was Schlatt, the “family friend,” to offer the kid an apartment until he could get on his feet. He’d slipped the gossip into some kid’s ear on the street outside of their institute.  _ Magicless Fundy, with nothing. Magicless Fundy, on the streets.  _

George had gotten his first job when he’d heard, started leaving envelopes of cash on the stoop of Fundy’s apartment. When Fundy wouldn’t pick them up, he’d knocked sharply on Schlatt’s door. 

_ “I need him to take the money. Please, make him take the money.”  _

_ “Why do  _ you  _ care so much?” Schlatt asked, huffing. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”  _

George’s face had turned white at the words. The next day, he showed up in person to speak to Fundy, asking to come in. They’d sat together in their kitchenette for the first time, spoken seriously although they weren’t even friends. 

_ “I took it,”  _ Schlatt could hear him say as he cast himself precariously out of his body to eavesdrop.  _ “Your magic- I have it.”  _

No; he’d spent too much time, too much effort, too much money and sweat on this boy to lose him now. George was his composition of terror, the perfect threat to those rotten boot-licking Guards who loomed over him. He wouldn’t let go of him now. 

“There’s a way to stop this,” he hissed where he stood. Leaning timidly around the stair banister behind him, Tubbo shifted. “We can stop this.”

***

By the time Clay is walking him back to his apartment, the air is cold with the dead wind of night. He shivers under his thin summer cloak as they make their way through the barren streets, and Clay frowns at him for a moment before shrugging his own, heavier cloak off and slipping it over George’s shoulders haphazardly. The shorter hunter startles, staring up at Clay with wide eyes, but he gets no answer from his face; Clay stares ahead, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

When they reach the courtyard, the tall hunter makes no move to take the clothing back, so George pulls it tightly around himself and smiles sheepishly as he waves and heads inside. It must be nearly two in the morning, but he feels more energized than he has all day.    
He turns, dopey smile not fading, and sets his own cloak on its hook without removing Clay’s. On the way home, the two had chatted amicably about nothing, something George wasn’t sure they were capable of. If he was being honest? It was nice. Clay’s voice was a soft rumble, slightly unsure if not careful and soothing. He laughed lightly at George’s quips, private and giggly, different from the heaving wheezing laugh of Dream, which had been echoing in his head all night. George found himself looking forward to seeing Clay again, wondering if maybe as time went on they would become easy friends instead of just partners in a strange political contraption. 

His smile drops as he steps out of the little entry hall and catches sight of the table. Two plates sit on top of it, one cleaned save for a few crumbs. On the other is a long-cold dinner that Fundy had obviously made special, mashed potatoes and roast carrots and a slab of pork covered in a sweet-looking red sauce. 

Fundy’s door is shut, when George peers down the hall to check. His light is off.

George curses to himself, cleaning up Fundy’s empty plate and packing his own food away in the ice box for tomorrow. He does the dishes that are sittin in the sink basin, guilt dripping over his chest. He’d ditched Fundy earlier, and he hadn’t even managed to make good on his promise to be home for dinner. 

“Just another thing to be guilty about,” he whispers to himself, but he doesn’t dwell on his guilt for long. He knows that if he does, he’ll just be up late worrying, and he has things he has to do tomorrow. Mentally, he adds a tick to his to-do list; ‘apologize to Fundy.’ 

He shuts his bedroom door softly behind him, collapses into bed without changing his clothes. He’s too tired to even think about getting into something sleep-appropriate. He’s too tired to notice that Clay’s cloak is still wrapped comfortably over his shoulders, or the way that he curls himself into it instead of pulling his blankets over himself. The fabric feels like safety; like a warm breeze holding back his negativity and fear. He falls asleep quickly, despite his worries for Fundy, his power, for Dream. 

His dreams are softly bright and windy. His dreams are full of green. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
